


Elysium

by rabidchild67



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Afterlife, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Abuse, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Soulmates, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 02:43:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 54,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5357969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting the hang of being dead can be difficult, especially when you’ve left so much unresolved in life. Chris learns the ins and outs of the afterlife thanks to a few new friends he makes there, but his heart remains in the land of the living with the soul mate he didn’t know he had: Zach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> See wonderful fan art for this story from @sraracha [here](http://srarahcha.tumblr.com/post/134620784396/art-for-elysium-pinto-big-bang)
> 
> I owe an unbelievable debt of gratitude to Semper-ama, without whose hand-holding and cheerleading this story would not have seen the light of day. She read it like three times, you guys - that goes well above and beyond the call if you ask me! And she let me torture her with snippets that were breaking my heart--it was much easier than going through it alone!
> 
> Special thanks to thatmysticbafflingwonder, whose prompt inspired this story over a year ago (though it's nothing like what she asked for, lol).

**December, 2014**

“Hello?” 

Zach’s voice was low, scratchy, like he had a cold. Chris’s heart sped up as soon as he heard it, and he almost couldn’t speak. But it was now or never. “Hey man, I was calling to congratulate you on _I Am Michael_ making it into Sundance,” he said. Not a bad opening line, not really.

“Chris! Thanks. It's been a real labor of love you know?”

"I totally get it."

"You'll be there too right? With _Zachariah_?"

"Um, yep, I’m on the hook for the premiere."

“Well, here's hoping I see you there, eh? It'll be so great. You can teach me to ski, maybe."

"Like that'll ever happen."

"Ha-ha yeah, no." 

Chris laughed mirthlessly and closed his eyes. Why was this so hard? Images of Zach’s last night in L.A. before he closed on his house there flashed in his brain. He was getting farther and farther away. "We never see each other anymore, though—I really miss you. Maybe we can make a long weekend out of it. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about."

“Really? That sounds ominous, ha-ha.”

“What? Oh! No, ha-ha-ha. No, it can wait. Best discussed in person, you know?” He left it there as his voice began to waver from nerves.

"OK, if you say so." Zach's voice trailed off, the silence awkward between them. "Did you hear? About Miles and me? We found the perfect place."

Chris’s heart was in his throat; hadn’t that been the catalyst for finally getting up the nerve to call? “Yeah, man. Cohabitation, that’s uh,” his voice, his throat, felt tight, “that’s great news.” He rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. “Congratulations.”

"Thanks."

More silence. "Yeah so in, yeah, like, a couple weeks then. I’ll see you in Utah." Chris winced. This completely lame conversation had not been his plan, but really, telling your best friend you were in love with him was a message that needed to be delivered in person, right? He was ashamed of the relief that washed over him, but at least he was mentally making travel plans. He told himself this was better than blurting it out over the phone.

"Sure, man."

"OK then, I'll call you next week, make some definite plans?"

"Yep."

"Cool. Well, I'd better get going, I've got to go film this last scene in the big tank."

"Oh really? That sounds cool."

"Cold is more like it, ha-ha." The huge tank they were using to film some of the scenes for _The Finest Hours_ was supposed to be temperature controlled, but there was only so much heat you could put into that much water during a New England winter. 

"Talk to you soon, Chris. Take care, man."

"I will."

The funny thing about the phrase "take care" is that no one really takes it seriously. That was the last thing that went through Chris's mind before he died.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Chris remembered about heaven was being pissed off. 

Not the most auspicious of beginnings, certainly.

Awareness came suddenly, as if a light switch had been turned on. There was no period of confusion, he was certain he was dead. And he was really annoyed about it.

He found himself sitting on a bench, outdoors. There was the suggestion of green, living things around him, trees and flowering plants, but all of it was surrounded by a thick mist that obscured outlines. 

"Don't be afraid. You are safe."

"I'm not afraid, I'm fucking _pissed off_!" Chris exclaimed, as he turned to face the speaker. She sat on the opposite end of the bench, a middle-aged woman with large blue eyes and carefully coiffed, ash blonde hair, gazing at him placidly through a pair of yellow-tinted sunglasses. When he saw her, he immediately sat up, almost mirroring her posture. 

"Nana?!" Now he _was_ confused.

"Language, Christopher."

It was his grandmother, Anne Gwynne, all right, her familiar voice confirmed it. 

She died more than a decade ago, but there was no forgetting her effect on him. He reached up to fix his hair without thinking, pushing his bangs to the side and ensuring his collar was straight. "Be present, be presentable," she used to say to him and Katie, her mantra. An actor like he was, his grandmother had come up in the old studio system, and she believed that always appearing pleasant and poised got her noticed, and got her roles. Katie especially would roll her eyes at this, but neither of them would have dared appear before their Nana looking anything less than presentable. 

"Sorry, ma'am."

She inclined her head, indicating he was forgiven. 

"What are you doing here?" he asked. 

"When recent arrivals are presented with a familiar face, we find it eases the transition."

“Who's 'we'?"

She waved her hand vaguely. "Oh, you know sweetheart." 

Of course he didn't, but he let it go. 

“How are you holding up?”

“I think there’s no good answer to that, Nana.”

“Except that you are angry about it.”

“Yeah, well, when I do something incredibly stupid and careless, I tend to get angry with myself.” He shook his head, reliving it once more. 

The scene they’d been filming for _The Finest Hours_ was part of the rescue of the sinking oil tanker’s crew. Chris’s character was to slide down the pitched deck of the stricken vessel on his belly, so that he could grab the hand of a crewman who was about to fall into the icy waters of the Atlantic. Chris was locked into a harness attached to a wire that would allow him to slide down the deck for about eight feet before he stopped, just short of the railing and the large tank where they were filming. They’d done it half a dozen times already, and each time, the harness got tighter and more uncomfortable around his crotch, to the point it was nearly excruciating. So in between setups for the last take, which would be a reverse angle, he loosened it without telling anyone, to give himself some relief. The director called for them to get into position, and Chris forgot to tell the stunt coordinator to hook him back up. He let himself fall, and when the line reached its endpoint, the harness gave way. Chris had kept going, hitting his head on the railing, and falling into the water, where he drowned before anyone could even react or reach him.

“If it’s any consolation, the head injury would have killed you eventually anyway.”

His grandmother: ever the pragmatic one. “It is exactly no consolation, Nana, but thanks.” He stared down at his feet, which he was mildly surprised to see were clad in a familiar, battered pair of red Chuck Taylor’s, then at the rest of his body. He was wearing a pair of black skinny jeans and a white Henley, untucked. “What, no heavenly raiment?” he murmured aloud, plucking at the shirt. A quick brush of his chin revealed he now had a closely-trimmed beard; he had been clean-shaven when he—left.

“No, and no wings either. You’d be surprised how many people that disappoints,” Anne said. She herself was wearing a pale green polo shirt with the collar popped and a khaki skirt, a color-coordinated visor on her head, and tennis shoes on her feet. She might have just come from playing tennis at her country club. “We appear how we subconsciously wish to on arrival. You’ll learn how to change it eventually.”

“Eventually? Oh yeah, eternity.” The sudden realization of literally the remainder of time stretching ahead of him began to feel a little heavy. “Shit.”

“Yes, well,” Anne said, gesturing vaguely with her hand. “It does get better.”

He had no reason not to believe her, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

“Do you have any questions for me, darling? Someone will notify you to schedule a proper orientation, but they sometimes get backed up in D.E.A.D., and it can take a little while.”

“D.E.A.D.?”

“The Deceased Education and Acclimatization Division—they’re in charge of REs.”

“REs.”

“The Recently-Expired. 

“Of course.”

“That’s another reason they sent me to see you, since your case worker hasn’t yet been assigned.”

“So is heaven just one big bureaucracy?” Chris asked, confused.

“Some things are universal, dear. You get used to it. They asked me to bring this to you.” She rose to retrieve a Bankers Box that she deposited into his lap.

“What’s this?”

“Your records.”

“That’s it?”

She sat down beside him, her leg nearly touching his. He could feel a kind of pulsating energy coming from her, but no warmth. “There were supposed to be more,” she said with a hint of sorrow in her eyes. She reached up and cupped his face with her hand; her touch was light as a feather, but he closed his eyes and leaned into it, taking what comfort he could from her. “It will be all right, Christopher,” she said, “I promise.”

He nodded, a sudden lump in his throat making it difficult to speak.

She stood after a moment. “I’ll go now. You’ll no doubt want to process things on your own, you always did, even when you were a little boy.”

She was right—all Chris wanted right now was to be alone with his thoughts, maybe check out what could possibly be in his box of records. “Some things never change, I guess.”

She smiled fondly, eyes shining. “No, they don’t. Now, you should hear very soon from your case worker, but if you have any questions before then, all you have to do is go to the D.E.A.D. Welcome Center and they’ll sort it all out, OK?” He nodded, casting his eyes down. She leaned forward to kiss him on the top of his head; when he looked up, she was gone. 

Chris blinked with surprise at the sudden realization that he was, in fact, in a garden. At some point during his conversation with his Nana, the mist had lifted, giving clarity to environment around him. Looking around, he was astonished to recognize the garden as the one at his own house.

Rising, he set the box down on the bench—which was just like the one his parents had given him as a housewarming gift years before, with tiny pine trees incorporated in the green-painted wrought iron on its back. He looked around, taking in the plants and trees that comprised the space, and was delighted to realize that a few things were different. This place was arranged exactly the way he'd always envisioned it to be _someday_ , with the citrus grove fully grown in and the retaining wall finally finished. The bench was situated at the edge, where his property was separated from the neighbor’s by an ivy-covered stone fence. Beyond that, he couldn’t see much, but the dimensions of the place were exactly as he remembered them. 

He took a walk around, his mind boggling; it wasn’t until he got back to the bench that he realized he hadn't seen his house. He turned around in a slow circle, scratching his head in confusion, but then the box of his records caught his attention and he forgot all about it. 

It was a plain, white Bankers Box, neat and smooth, with his full name and the dates of his birth and death written on it in black marker. Inside was a pile of file folders laid down flat rather than upright. He sat on the ground and set the box down beside him, pulling out a handful of folders about three inches thick. The one on top was dated December 5, 2014—the day he died. He swallowed and pulled his hand away, feeling a bit of trepidation well up inside. The one behind it was dated the day before that, as was the one behind that. 

“Is there one for every day?” he wondered aloud. Apparently, there was. Some were thicker than others, some apparently had only one or two sheets inside. Sheets of what? Well, he’d never know until he opened one. “Like ripping off a Band-Aid,” he muttered, opening the top one up.

The contents of the file appeared to be transcripts—typed double-spaced on onion skin—of every single word he or anyone around him said, each thought he had, and every movement. The way the text was presented reminded him of a shooting script, which somehow reduced the creepiness factor. 

He thumbed through the sheets and landed on his last conversation with Zach. He felt a swoop of something that felt like vertigo, so he bypassed it, skipping to the end. The last line read: _SUBJECT died at 16:11:23 local time. Cause of death: drowning. SUBJECT is survived by his parents and sister. No spouse. No progeny._

Chris stared at the words for a long time, allowing them to sink in. _No spouse. No progeny._ He’d lived and died and had nothing—and no one—to show for it. Somehow, the realization made him feel cold inside, and numb. Wasn’t that supposed to be the meaning of life—leaving something behind? He’d never really thought so, but having it stare out at him in stark, black-and-white, 10-point Courier font made him feel like he’d somehow failed. He’d always meant to… do those things. Someday. Right? 

He wasn’t sure, and he’d always thought it’d be OK whether he did or didn’t, but now…

“Shit, man,” he said, feeling a sudden pressure in his chest. He noted there was a sheaf of photos beneath the onion skin; flipping over the last sheet, he needed only the barest of glimpses before he realized they were autopsy photos. He closed the file folder with a _SMACK_ and set it aside, feeling queasy. 

He picked up the next one, and the next, scanning their contents and setting them aside as well. It wasn’t too long before he was at the bottom of the pile and reached into the box for another. Eventually, the pain in his chest subsided as he reviewed the contents of his box, folders filled with moments large and small. Some of the files he went through had attachments; photos he’d taken, or bits of verse he’d written. The odd slip of paper from a fortune cookie he’d found funny or profound and slipped into his wallet. They were all things he’d thought significant enough to catalog or keep, some of them highly important, like the _Into the Woods_ shooting script he’d gotten signed by his fellow cast members like a yearbook. Most of what he found were things he’d lost track of eventually. Had they all wound up here? Would he find every sock he’d ever lost in the laundry in here too?

By the time he got to about 2012, he grew tired of reviewing every little thing. Looking around himself, he suddenly realized that the volume of files he’d gone through could not possibly have all fit inside the box beside him. Yet when he peeked back inside, it was still filled to the brim.

“So weird.”

Chris was suddenly struck with the burning need to get to the bottom of the box, to see what it looked like when his life was reduced to a pile of 12,519 file folders with assorted attachments. Turned out, it was pretty impressive. 

The folders were multi-colored near the top, but switched to manila towards the bottom. The folders got a lot thicker when he got to his childhood, where a lot more keepsakes were to be found. There was the collar from Sadie-girl, the family dog, who’d died when he was 12; she slept at the foot of his bed literally since the day he was born. Also included were all his baby teeth, dutifully filed in their appropriate folders, stapled onto the typewritten reports in tiny glassine bags. He found notes he’d passed to girls in class in middle school, and the letters he’d sent to a pen pal he’d been assigned as a school project in fifth grade. He was utterly surrounded by the time he emptied the box; he had to rest piles on the bench behind him, but he finally got to the last one: August 26, 1980. 

He held the folder in front of his face for a moment, taking it in. It was powder blue and relatively thick. Opening it, he found the kinds of medical records a hospital might keep on a newborn: lab reports and test results, his foot prints, and a dried-up blood sample. There was what looked like an original copy of his birth certificate, too, complete with official seal of the state of California. He noticed another, smaller piece of paper had been stapled onto it, so he flipped it over to look. It held a few additional details—how old he would be when he began to teeth, the color his hair and eyes would ultimately be, and that he would be nearsighted enough by the age of nine to require glasses. It was strange to see all these details apparently predicted at the moment of his birth—how much else had been predetermined? 

He was about to file the certificate away when he noticed that the second slip of paper had a crease in it—an accidental bend had happened when someone had closed the folder. He flipped it down, flattening it out with the heel of his hand so he could read it. What he saw made his breath catch in his lungs:

 **Assigned Soul Mate (leave blank if none)** : _Zachary John Quinto, born June 2, 1977, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, United States, North America_

Chris stared at the name for another solid minute before the pressure in his lungs became too much and he began to feel dizzy. He was already dead—could he faint? He needed to lie down, so he did, on his back, in the cool, spongy grass.

“God, I am an idiot,” he said once his vision cleared. Zach had been his soul mate, they had been meant to be together. Forever, maybe.

How many times had he almost told Zach he had feelings for him? How many times had he chickened out? He was pretty sure the answer could actually be calculated if he went through his box of records and started a tally. It was such a waste, and he was a fool. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he said, though he wasn’t sure who he was apologizing to.

He raised his hands to cover his eyes, breathing in and out slowly to try to make himself feel better. It didn’t work. Then he remembered his grandmother’s words to him; that if he had any questions, he could just go to the D.E.A.D. Welcome Center and ask to see his case worker. 

Sitting up, he replaced all his files—not really caring if he got them back into the box in the right order—and made his way out of the garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it helps to know, I was picturing Chris in heaven how he looked for the STID press tour, specifically the Australia interviews.


	3. Chapter 3

Chris emerged through the stone fence that surrounded his garden onto a very neat and orderly street. Surprisingly, it looked almost exactly like the one he lived on, complete with the lane winding down the hill. The sidewalks here were perfect, with no cracks or imperfections marring them; the streets themselves were clean and even, with no sign of litter or disrepair. Or traffic, for that matter. 

Coming to a bend in the road, he found himself looking out over the foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains as he would have done before, only here there was no smog or haze to distort the view. The topography was the same, though there appeared to more green space. He also saw what he thought was a gleaming white skyscraper off in the distance. It had not been there when he left— _when he died_ , he wasn’t on some trip—and seemed so out of place, it was as likely a direction to take as any. He decided to walk. 

The properties that lined the street looked very much like his own—tall stone walls with iron gates and nothing visible beyond them. He got to the corner and turned left, walking toward town. As he got closer, he saw more people walking around. Everyone smiled and greeted him when they saw him, which was kind of off-putting, but he returned their greetings because he didn’t want to seem rude.

He approached one of them, a woman who looked to be about his age, as she passed directly in front of him. She wore a simple sundress and had long, straight hair through which had been woven dozens of tiny flowers. Upon closer inspection, she was barefoot and wore a small silver peace symbol on a simple leather cord around her neck. She reminded him of a hippie from the 1960s. 

“Excuse me?” he said.

She looked at him with a friendly, expectant smile on her face. 

“I hate to bother you, but I’m new here, and I need to speak with my case worker. I think I’m supposed to find the D.E.A.D. Welcome Center?”

She nodded. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Could you tell me if I’m heading in the right direction?” He gestured toward the tall tower.

Her eyes followed his hand and she nodded. “That tower is the Hall of Records, but the Welcome Center’s right next door.”

“Hall of Records?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she said with a nod, not elaborating further. 

“Well, thanks,” he said and she smiled, flashed him the peace symbol, and went on her way.

The walk to the Welcome Center was a pleasant one, along still more orderly streets. It was like walking through Disneyland, only cleaner. As in his home town, the residential area gave way to a more commercial-looking district, though the buildings here were completely devoid of storefronts. The ones he passed seemed more like offices or university buildings, with wide plazas and expansive lawns taking up the spaces where formerly there would have been strip malls and supermarkets. There were many people walking around, bustling about on their ways here or there. On a nearby lawn, a group of boys played soccer; under a small grove of olive trees, he spotted three young women sitting on benches, sharing bits of paper from what appeared to be journals they were writing in, and laughing. 

It didn’t take Chris long to reach his destination. The D.E.A.D. Welcome Center was a three-story Greek Revivalist structure, complete with Doric columns supporting a sculpted pediment depicting scenes with centaurs, nymphs, and other classical imagery. 

He walked up to the Welcome Center, looking around with great interest. It and the adjacent Hall of Records appeared to have been built on the grounds of an old film studio Chris was familiar with. Just inside the front doors was a massive, raised reception desk carved out of dark wood, behind which several people were waiting to help. There was no line. Chris walked up to the counter to the first person he saw, a young woman with dark curly hair, dressed in a nondescript dark suit.

She smiled down at him. “Welcome to D.E.A.D., my name is Bea. How can I help you?”

“Hi, my name is Christopher Pine and I was hoping to meet with my case worker?”

She nodded and picked up a clipboard. Chris rested his hands on the edge of the desk and stood on his toes, trying to see what was on it. “I dunno if I even have one yet—I just got here,” Chris told her, trying to be helpful.

She nodded once and looked up at him. She had the most expressive, kindest brown eyes he had ever seen, and he immediately felt more at ease. “Mr. Maro—Room P-10. That’s in the East wing—just follow that corridor over there, and you’ll find signs directing you.” She gestured off to the side, where a wide gallery stretched off into the distance. 

“Thanks,” he said.

“No problem, and welcome to the afterlife.” She winked at him and smiled.

Chris went off in the direction she’d indicated; the gallery gave way to a smaller corridor once he got into the building proper. Directional signage sent him along his way and he had no difficulty finding the room she’d told him about. There was a small, engraved placard affixed to the wall beside the door that read, _P. V. Maro_ on it. Chris took a deep breath and knocked. 

“Come,” called a deep voice.

Chris opened the heavy, oaken door. The comfortably-appointed office was tastefully decorated, with comfortable furniture arranged at one end, a sumptuously thick, dark red carpet, a built-in bookcase along one wall, and small sculptures set in alcoves in the wall. At one end sat a large desk, behind which the office’s occupant sat. 

He rose as Chris entered—a middle-aged man of medium height, his curling, grey hair cut close to his scalp. He was casually dressed, with an oversized, beige cardigan worn over a plain, white cotton t-shirt. He removed his glasses as he held out a hand. “You must be Christopher,” he said, regarding Chris with a steady gaze.

“Yes, sir,” Chris replied, crossing the room to shake his hand. The thick carpet muffled all sound of his walking, he noticed. “Thank you for seeing me without an appointment.”

Maro spread his hands amiably. “I had an opening. Please sit.”

Chris took the seat opposite him; the chair was upholstered in fine, supple leather and was very comfortable.

“How can I help you today, Christopher?”

Chris opened his mouth and then closed it—how best to begin? And what, exactly, was he here to ask? “I had a look through my records box,” he blurted. 

“I trust you found everything to be in order?”

“Yes? I guess? I saw my birth certificate.” Maro raised his bushy eyebrows, a bland expression on his face. Chris thought he’d better get to the point before the guy asked him to leave. “It said on there that I had a soul mate.” 

“I apologize, I’ve not had the time to familiarize myself with your case file—had you never met this person or something?”

“No, I was, it’s just… we were never together.” 

Maro frowned. “You never met?”

“We did, it’s just… we were never _together_. And, um, well…” his voice trailed off.

“Yes?”

“Well, I mean, if he was my soul mate, we never got to, like… mate.”

Maro’s frown deepened, his lush lower lip turning down almost as if he was pouting. “Are you familiar with the concept of free will, Chris?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then you will know already that, while certain things in life may be predetermined—whether by genetic makeup or by the Omniscients—a being’s agency will always win out. We are ultimately creatures of choice. This is how it has always been.”

Chris couldn’t shake the feeling he was being dressed down in the principal’s office. “But he’ll never know,” Chris said. _And I will never see him again._ He tried to keep the despair he felt at that thought at bay and failed. He felt like crying.

Maro stared at him for a few beats before his manner relaxed. “Oh, I see—you think that since you were unable to be together in life you never will be?”

Chris nodded, unable to speak.

Maro chuckled, coming out from behind his desk. “My boy, you think like the living.” He clapped a hand on Chris’s shoulder and squeezed; Chris noticed he was wearing Tevas on his feet. “Soul mates represent a bond that lasts through eternity. You will see each other again.”

“Really?”

“Of course. See, this is why I keep insisting we increase our staffing, so that REs don’t get the wrong idea about these things,” Maro grumbled.

Chris took a deep breath, not knowing what Maro was talking about and not really caring. The man went on, “That said, perhaps someday we will address your inability to express yourself effectively, yes? Fortune favors the brave, does it not?”

“I thought it was the bold? That fortune favors, I mean.”

“No, it’s brave,” Maro said with a wink. “It’s often misquoted. Now, let’s make an appointment to meet again soon. It can be a disorienting experience to find oneself suddenly dead, and it is my job to ensure you make the transition as smoothly as possible. I have an opening tomorrow at 10:30—will you be able to make it?” 

“I have literally no other thing to do,” Chris answered.

Maro laughed. “Fine, fine. I’ll make a note of it and see you tomorrow.”

\----

As he left, Chris took the time to explore the city. The lack of the familiar shops, cafes, and other merchants made it feel strangely antiseptic, but he supposed dead people didn’t need to buy greeting cards or churros or get the oil changed on their cars. He found a large building that turned out to be a library and whiled away an hour exploring various collections before settling on a copy of _Beowulf_ in the original Old English. He paused to consider how he could read it with full understanding, but got more distracted by the fact he was holding the actual lambskin parchment. He geeked out for five whole minutes. If these was one of the benefits to being dead, he was almost into it. 

Before he left, he checked out a first edition of _Bleak House_ and headed… well, he supposed it was home now, even if it was apparently just his garden. The sun had lowered in the sky, hovering just above the horizon. He wondered if it ever set, and expected he’d figure it out one way or another in a little over an hour. Once home, he settled beneath his favorite orange tree, now fully mature and in full bloom. He stared up at the leaves through the soft light of impending sunset and quickly fell asleep.

He woke the next morning feeling refreshed, and not at all sore for having spent the night on the ground. He wasn’t cold or dirty or disheveled, either, which he found odd, nor hungry or even in need of a piss, which was possibly more upsetting—did he really miss _that_ bodily function?. He read until he didn’t need to anymore, because he knew suddenly that he had to leave at that moment in order to be on time for his appointment. So much for not having a watch, either.

The walk to the city center took less time this morning—or it seemed to when he let his mind wander—and he soon found himself at Maro’s door. He was about to knock when it opened for him. “Mr. Maro?” he called as he pushed it the rest of the way open.

“Good morning, Christopher,” Mr. Maro said from his desk. “Please take a seat. How are you today?”

Chris crossed the room and sat. “Better, I guess? Slept OK.” 

“That’s… fortunate for you. Shall we begin your re-orientation? You may ask me any questions you have.”

“Re-orientation?” Chris wondered at the word.

Maro nodded. “The majority of returned REs find re-entry on the celestial plane to be… problematic. The vestiges of life can cling for a very long time, and memory of time spent here can prove elusive. We therefore offer programs to help you understand the ‘lay of the land’ as it were.”

“You mean that reincarnation… is a thing? I’ve been here before?”

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

“As many as half a dozen—I’d have to look it up.”

“I don’t remember any of it.” Chris wasn’t sure if he ought to be upset about that or not.

“You must give it time and be patient. It may take a very long time or almost none at all—it all depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether or not you have left too much of yourself invested on the corporeal plane.”

“Oh.” Chris looked down at his hands, knowing which category he fell into. The revelation the day before and his regret at not telling Zach his feelings were like a physical weight on him. He felt a hand on his shoulder—Maro had risen and come around the desk.

“ _Here, too, the honorable finds its due and there are tears for passing things; here, too, things mortal touch the mind_.” Maro tapped a fingertip at his temple and smiled kindly, hazel eyes twinkling. He was handsome, Chris thought, for a middle-aged guy; short but compact, powerfully built. Once more today he was dressed casually, a long scarf—almost like a shawl—draped across his torso almost carelessly. “You must learn to set them aside.”

“I don’t know if I can.” 

“There will be time.”

Chris took a deep, cleansing breath and held it, then blew it out slowly. He nodded. “Plenty of time.”

“Yes. Now, back on track—what else would you like to know? How can I help you?”

“So, is this heaven?”

“Coming out swinging—I like it,” Maro said and returned to his seat. “Heaven, Jannah, Eden, this place has many names. I personally like ‘Elysium.’ It is more accurately called the celestial plane, contrasted with the corporeal plane, where the living reside.”

“What about hell?”

“There is no such place.” 

“So does nothing religions teach actually matter?”

“Religion is a man-made construct.”

“Boy, there are going to be a lot of pissed off clerics down there, especially the ones who claim to talk to God.”

Maro looked like he was suppressing a smile. “It is a rude awakening, indeed. But the Omniscients talk to no one, they have no need.” 

“The Omniscients? Plural?”

“Gods, saints, angels—whatever you prefer to call them. They existed before, and they will exist after mankind has gone.”

“Did they create the universe?”

“No one knows, but I do not think so. They are benevolent beings, existing on a plane higher than our own. Beyond that, there is not much known about them.”

“But I mean, what are they _for_? What do they do? Why do they care about our dopey little planet?”

“They provide a type of oversight is how I see it. And it is they who compile the records that were shared with you upon your death. They are big on the record keeping.”

“Are you one of them?”

“I am not, though you’re not the first person to ask, Christopher.”

“Hey, uh… me questioning all this isn’t a problem, is it? I mean, with the guys and gals upstairs?”

“First off, gender is meaningless to them, and secondly, we are all allowed our opinions—free will, remember? As you shed the inhibitions that being of the living has ingrained in you, you will understand—you will remember and you will see—the interconnectedness of all things, and why it must be this way.”

“Maybe.”

Maro smiled kindly. “The turbulence you feel in your mind is understandable, but it is a temporary state. I urge you to take heart in that.”

“I’ll try.” Chris sighed and shook himself, willing himself to shake his poor mood. 

“You and I will have other sessions to discuss many more things, and you will see, and understand. Why don’t we pick up there tomorrow, hmm?”

“OK, fine,” Chris said. He stood when Maro did, and walked with him to the door. “Can I ask one more question?” The man inclined his head. “Is there any way… I mean, does anyone ever…” He sighed, unable to find the words. “Can I go back?”

“I am afraid it is not possble. Your time on the corporeal plane is done, Chris.”

Chris sighed and nodded, resigned to it; he had to ask even if he could have guessed at the answer. Maro extended a hand and Chris took it, saying, 

“Ah, how fleetly speeds the little span  
Of lusty youth allowed to mortal man.”

Maro looked surprised, and then flattered. “You quote me to myself. I must say, that does not happen often anymore.”

“I had an eccentric lit professor my junior year at college; he liked to quote important Roman poets,” Chris explained. He pointed at the name plate on the door. “Your full name is Publius Vergilius Maro—the poet, Virgil. It was bugging me, but I didn’t remember until looking at it just now.”

“You are a singular gentleman, Christopher.”

“I dunno about that, but how cool is it that my guide through the afterlife is _Virgil_? I’m kinda stoked.”

“I am not unaware of the irony.”

“May I call you Virgil?”

“You may.”

“So tell me, have you ever met Dante? What’s he like? Is he a hack? He’s a hack, am I right? You can tell me if you think so, it’ll stay in the vault.”

Virgil merely chuckled and waved him away. “I will see you at the same time tomorrow.”


	4. Chapter 4

With literally nothing else to do, Chris explored some more, heading for what he had known in life as Griffith Park. He had always loved the place, even as a kid, with its pockets of wild terrain alongside more traditional features of a city park, like soccer fields and tennis courts. As a kid, his mom would take him and Katy on pony rides out here. This version of the park had many of the familiar features he’d have expected—including a magnificent view of the Hollywood sign and the Greek theater—but he wondered if the zoo was still there. He couldn’t recall seeing any animals since he arrived—not squirrels or dogs or birds, so he made a note to head over there sooner than later. 

He kept to the outer edges of the park for now, and its well-manicured paths. He would literally have eternity to explore it anew, to see if the old hiking trails he was so familiar with were there. He’d been walking for what seemed like hours before he realized he didn’t feel tired, or thirsty, or overheated on what was a pleasantly sunny and warm day. He supposed he had no physical body to need to feed or rest, and the fact he had slept the night before now seemed unusual. The sun did seem to travel through the sky—it was apparently now noon—but he still had no recollection of night falling the day before. 

As before, the people he passed were pleasant and friendly to him, smiling. Many sat at public tables conversing or playing chess or backgammon; a small grouping of Chinese women played a spirited game of mahjong not too far from where he walked. He saw more than a few painters working on landscapes, and people out on walks or jogs, chatting amiably with their companions. No one was out of breath or sweaty. 

He was skirting the edge of a broad expanse of lawn where a group of people were engaging in tai-chi when something so incongruous happened he almost didn’t notice. Out of nowhere he caught the unmistakable scent of cigarette smoke. 

Chris stopped short when he realized what it was and looked around excitedly, keen to know where it came from. There, standing against a chestnut tree about a hundred yards away, was a man. He was Caucasian, dark-haired, Chris’s age or perhaps a bit younger. He wore jeans and a white, short-sleeved t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his biceps, and was leaning back with one booted foot resting against the tree’s gnarled trunk. On the ground beside him was a battered guitar case, and he was watching the tai-chi group with placid disinterest. 

For the first time that day, Chris felt compelled to engage with one of his fellow heavenly citizens. He made his way across the thick, springy grass towards him. As he got closer, he realized the guy’s hair was styled in an old-fashioned way, long on top, short in back and on the sides, and combed back from his forehead very carefully. He seemed somehow familiar, and as Chris got closer and he turned his head, Chris could see why. 

“Can I help you, Junior?” the man asked good-naturedly.

“Holy shit, you’re Elvis Presley!”

“At yer service, son.”

“God, you’re so young!”

“Excuse me?”

If Chris was alive, he’d be blushing, he was certain of it. “I’m sorry, it’s just… when you passed away, you looked a lot different is all.”

A brief flicker of amusement crossed Elvis's face. “I’ll be the first to admit I kinda let myself go toward the end there. There were extenuatin’ circumstances.”

“Oh, I know—I went to Graceland once in high school, did the whole tour. I even bought one of those clocks, you know the ones where your hips swing like a pendulum?”

“I do not know. Are you telling me there are novelty clocks featuring my signature move?”

He suddenly had an alert expression on his face, sharp and cunning, and Chris didn’t know whether he’d pissed the guy off or not. “Um, yes?”

“Well all right!” Elvis's face split into a happy grin. “Take that, CBS sensors. You know, they would only film me from the waist up when I appeared on Ed Sullivan? Said my dancin’ was obscene. Indecent. Buncha old farts, what did they know about decency?”

“Nothing, sir. Nothing at all.”

“You’re damn right. Hoo boy, that tickles my fancy.” He took a last drag on the cigarette and threw it to the ground, squashing it flat with the toe of his boot. Then he turned to Chris and extended a hand. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name, kid.”

“Chris. Chris Pine.” He took the offered hand and shook it enthusiastically; it was warm and dry, solid to hold on to. 

“It’s a pleasure.”

“Believe me, the pleasure is mine. Wow, I figured I’d see people I knew at some point, but not famous ones.”

“Everyone’s equal up here, of course.”

“Oh, of course.”

“It doesn’t hurt to be recognized, though. I tell ya, I can tell that people know me but they’re always afraid to approach and I don’t know why.”

“Well, I mean, you’re the King, it’s kind of intimidating.”

“Didn’t cause you any problems.”

Chris shrugged. “I’m new here. And honestly, you being you was not really the reason I came over.”

Elvis looked taken aback by that for a moment, then amused. “What, pray tell, was the reason?”

“You were smoking. That’s… just unexpected. I mean, since I got here I haven’t seen anyone eat or drink. There are no shops or anything. It’s just weird to see someone smoking a cigarette.”

Elvis shrugged. “I like ‘em. You want one?” He dug through the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a wrinkled packet of Lucky Strikes.

“Could I?” Chris wasn’t sure what he was more excited about—bumming a smoke off of Elvis Presley or actually being able to smoke it. Up close, the man was handsome, his face young and unlined. He spoke in a gentle, Southern drawl, just like Chris remembered hearing in old interviews and movies, but there was an irony and humor that lay under it all, a personality that Chris didn’t recall. He was likable and charming, and it was no wonder he became what he became.

Elvis flicked open an engraved silver lighter and lit it, holding it up for him. Chris bent over and cupped his hand around it, even though there was no breeze to speak of, reveling in the crunchy sounds of the rolling papers catching, the sweet, suffocating sensation of that first burst of smoke in his lungs, evocative of living and dying both. He held it in for a beat and then blew it out the side of his mouth, away from Elvis. He glanced down at the cig—unfiltered, naturally—and picked a speck of tobacco off the tip of his tongue. Then he realized he felt none of the buzz he normally got from a hit of nicotine, no rush. He looked at Elvis and frowned. “I’m not really feeling it.”

Elvis shrugged. “Me neither. Gives me something to do with my hands.”

Chris nodded and took another drag with closed his eyes, the old, familiar movements proving comforting anyway. “It’s still good, I don’t care.”

“Right on, brother.”

He smoked for a few moments more before speaking again. “Thanks for this, it’s the first normal thing I’ve done since I got here.”

“No sweat, it can be strange. I spent my first month here naked in a tree if you can believe it.” He glanced over at Chris, his eyes holding a measure of mischief, but there was no denying the hint of pain there. The afterlife, it seemed, was not necessarily a place where everyone found ultimate peace, and Chris could relate.

“I can see the appeal in that,” Chris said instead, blowing out another lungful of smoke. He smoked the cig down to a tiny nub and moved forward to stub it out on the trunk of the tree they stood beneath. Elvis moved to allow him access.

“They give you a buncha files when you met with them?”

“They sent them over with my grandmother. In a box.” Chris hunkered down to sit in the soft grass that grew in a carpet beneath the tree. 

Elvis sat down beside him, resting his back against the tree’s broad trunk and stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Mine was in a filing cabinet. I didn’t look at ‘em for over a year, I couldn’t.”

“Really? That was probably smart. Me, I couldn’t resist, it was like I was moving in slow-motion, like in a horror movie or something, some sick fascination made me look. Everything I did and said on the day I died, right there on top, complete with autopsy reports and,” Chris shuddered, “photographs. I don’t want to think about what my parents saw—“ he cut himself off, could feel emotion choking him. He shook his head. “I was so stupid.”

“Don’t beat yourself up too bad, kid. If there’s anywhere where regrets will do you no good, it’s this place.”

Chris looked over at Elvis, whose expressive brown eyes held his steadily. “You really believe that?” he asked.

“Not so far,” he replied, squinting in the bright sunlight.

They sat together in silence for several minutes, watching as the tai-chi class broke up, its participants leaving in small groups. Chris felt uncharacteristically comfortable with the man seated beside him, which was unusual. He was a pretty amiable guy, but feeling like he could open up to someone wasn’t an easy journey. The last person he could remember that happening with was Zach.

The thought made sorrow and regret wash over him anew. “I just wish I could go back—check in on my, uh, folks. They’re not young—this won’t be easy for them.”

Elvis winked at him, and his eyes twinkled. He scrambled to his feet and opened up his guitar case. “Now is it me, or could this place use a little rock n’ roll?” 

Chris glanced inside the case to see a vintage, 1950s-era Gibson acoustic that looked well-used and well cared-for. Chris found himself staring, open-mouthed, as Elvis took it out and slung the hand-tooled leather strap over his head. He didn’t bother to see if it was tuned, just took the pick that had been stuffed between the strings into his right hand and began strumming. 

“Any requests?”

“You kidding? Anything you want to play, man.”

Elvis nodded and struck the pose immortalized by Chris’s childhood clock, right foot turned in as he threw his opposite hip out and raised his hand. Then he launched into the rawest rendition of _Blue Suede Shoes_ Chris had ever heard in his entire life.

“Well it’s one for the money  
Two for the show  
Three to get ready  
Now go, cat, go!  
But don’t you step on my blue suede shoes!” 

It was odd, Chris realized, that the jangly notes of the guitar could have such reverb in an outdoor setting without an amplifier, but he chalked it up to the miracle of heaven. Or something. As Elvis performed, swiveling his hips back and forth, he threw his head back in utter abandon. He was clearly enjoying himself—Chris wondered how often he performed like this—and it soon attracted a crowd. Chris didn’t notice them appear, but they had, roughly two dozen people, young and old. A few couples even began to dance, and the atmosphere under the tree was festive and light.

Elvis responded to their presence like nothing Chris had ever seen, beginning to prance along a small space under the tree, shoulders hunched over his instrument as he danced, his moves jerky but clearly coordinated. Chris felt like he was watching some kind of documentary brought to life in front of him as Elvis moved on to play two more songs, delivering them in what could only be categorized as a signature performance. His face was transformed by a sort of rapture as he sang and played, and Chris was completely transported along with him. No wonder the guy became the biggest star in the world—how could he not have been? 

As the final strains of the guitar played in synchrony with the last lyric, Elvis lowered his head and bowed humbly for those assembled, who burst into elated applause. Chris, too, got to his feet to join them, hooting and whistling his appreciation.

“Well thank you. Thank you very much,” Elvis said in what to Chris had always seemed so cliché in the past, but now sounded exactly like what it was—the grateful expression of an artist who had just given a part of his soul to his audience. 

Despite the crowd obviously wanting to hear more, Elvis graciously demurred, and they were soon gone. 

“Man, that was the most amazing thing I have ever experienced in my entire life,” Chris enthused, holding his hand out. Elvis shook it, and Chris couldn’t resist patting him on the shoulder enthusiastically. “You do that every day?”

“Not all that much anymore,” Elvis said with a sniff as he bent down to place his guitar in its case. “I haven’t had the urge, really.”

“Well, that’s just a shame, because you were great.”

“It’s good to be the King,” Elvis said with a grin, and Chris laughed.

\----

Chris spent the rest of the afternoon in the library again, amusing himself with the breadth of selection he found there. He was allowed to see a Gutenberg Bible as well as the complete collected _Calvin and Hobbes_ comic strips, and he read them all, reliving his childhood. He took a few other books “home” with him, but when he arrived, he caught a glimpse of his records box and went to it, as if drawn to it by invisible ropes. 

He sat on the bench with it beside him, hand atop the pile of folders and reminiscing. How could he not? He had little else to do, and here it was. Unlike Elvis, it seemed reviewing these materials wasn’t something so painful it had to be avoided. He did it because it was.

Deciding on a specific event, he thumbed through the folders until he came upon one in particular from April of 2013. The date would forever be significant to him, and as he opened the folder and read, the things he said and did all typed out, he felt like it had happened just the day before.

 

**Berlin, April, 2013**

“When’s the photo call?” Chris said, yawning through the words, thus making them completely incomprehensible.

“What?” Zach asked, slightly exasperated.

“When do we have to be there tomorrow?”

“Ten.”

“And the premiere is when?”

“Seven. Jeez, Marcia went through it all before, weren't you paying attention?”

Chris shrugged. “It’s hard to pay attention in these things.”

“Why, because it means you’ll have to behave like a responsible adult?”

Chris nodded without even thinking about it. He was in a weird mood—or state of mind or whatever it would be called—ever since they arrived from Moscow that morning. He didn’t think he could blame it on jet lag exactly, though he was certainly tired. Perhaps it was the long slog of repetitive press junket interviews behind them, or that the end was in sight. It was on to London after this and then home sweet home. It had been a long three weeks.

At any rate, he was feeling a strange mixture of tiredness and giddy euphoria mixed with a sense that he was somehow outside his body. He wondered if this was what total exhaustion felt like. It was trippy. 

He smiled at Zach, who rolled his eyes, but dutifully went through their schedule off the top of his head, without having to look at his phone for the itinerary or anything. Chris didn’t know how he remembered it all, he honestly didn’t. Or maybe he didn’t know why he cared so much.

“What’s this place called again?” Chris asked.

The non sequitur barely fazed Zach, who continued, “Kater Holzig,” he said, with the kind of relish for trying to say foreign words only Zach possessed. “Supposed to be really cool and chill. You’ll like it.”

“Cool _and_ chill. Brr.”

“Alice heard it was fun. Anyway, shut up, at least we’re going out.”

“I said nothing.”

Zach smiled. “You didn’t have to.”

Chris generally considered himself a homebody, more content to hang with friends around a dinner table than going out clubbing. Not that the mood to do that never struck, it was just that he enjoyed it less the older he got. It was nice that Zach got that about him—or more importantly, deflected those who would tease Chris because of it—but he was the opposite personality, and enjoyed staying out dancing all night. He was also the kind of guy who took everyone’s fun as his personal responsibility or something. Chris could have insisted on staying at the hotel, getting caught up on sleep while the rest of the cast went out, but he also knew that coming along would make Zach happy.

Their car pulled up in front of the club, which strictly speaking looked like anything but. “Did a bomb go off here?” Zoë asked, looking up at what very closely resembled an abandoned warehouse that had been burnt down and rebuilt from its own remains. 

“Was it yesterday?” Alice added.

“I dunno, I quite like it,” Simon said. “Dadaism meets post-apocalyptic subway platform.” He glanced at two teenaged girls walking by, chatting animatedly in German. 

“With popsicles,” Chris added, noting what they held in their hands.

They were ushered to what amounted to a VIP entrance, where they would bypass the long security lines, where the other patrons were queued to pay their cover and get their hands stamped.

“Don’t we get stamps?” Alice asked the club’s publicist, who happily obliged them, coming back with an ink pad and rubber stamp that featured the club’s logo, a winking cartoon cat. Chris now realized it had been incorporated in much of the décor of the place too.

Much of the appeal of the club, apparently, was an outdoor area they were ushered through, which featured music and dancing, drinking, and lots of food. They were taken to a private area at the back beneath a low portico. Portable heaters had been set up to ward off the late April chill, and they lent the place a warm and welcoming golden glow. 

Chris settled at one of the tables with Simon and Alice while Zach and Zoë discussed something with the waitress who’d been assigned to them. Chris wasn’t sure what they were saying, but it sure looked interesting if their gestures and the expressions on their faces were any indication. It turned out they were ordering drinks and food, for which Chris was very grateful, because he was starving. 

“Here, this is for you,” Zach said several minutes later, handing Chris a wide-brimmed glass.

“What is it?”

“Yuzu margarita—like we had in Paris.”

Chris grinned—he’d gotten completely and memorably toasted on them.

“I told them what to put in it—is it good?” Zach asked.

Chris took a careful, considering taste. It wasn’t exactly like the ones they’d had—it was sweeter—but it was completely delicious, and Chris thought he detected a hint of wasabi powder in the salt that coated the glass’s rim. “Mmm, yes, even better.” Zach smiled proudly, pleased with himself.

The food arrived shortly thereafter and they spent another hour chatting and hanging out. Three drinks in, Chris felt the tequila’s effects take hold, beginning with a pleasant warmth in his belly and radiating outwards, making him feel completely relaxed. Someone nudged him in the shoulder and he looked up. “What?”

“Earth to Chris,” Zoë teased. 

“Sorry, was I zoning out?” She grinned. “I dunno, sometimes tequila makes me loopy,” he admitted.

“It’s all good,” Zach said, leaning into him from the other side. They had all packed themselves around a single table so they could be together. Zach and Chris sat so close their hips and thighs touched. Zach lay his head on Chris’s shoulder and swirled the remains of his drink around the glass.

“And sometimes, tequila makes Zach really friendly,” Chris observed fondly.

“I am always friendly,” Zach said. “I just show it in different ways.”

Chris rested his own head on top of Zach’s momentarily then reached over to take his drink from him, finishing it. Zach mounted a feeble protest, but got distracted when Chris set the glass back down on the table. 

“Ooo! Look, we’re twins.” Zach turned their arms up, displaying the matching stamps of the club’s logo on their wrists. “Cat tat twins!”

Chris focused in on it with a strange degree of drunken concentration he was instantly aware of. “Aw man, that’s so cool.”

“Wait a sec, I need to capture this!” Zach whipped out his phone and lined up a shot, snapping three or four photos of their intertwined arms before he achieved what he thought was the right aesthetic or whatever it was he looked for in these things. 

“Oh, that’s nice,” Chris said with a slow smile. “Send me a copy.”

Zach hunkered down over his phone for a few minutes while Chris looked up and watched some of the action happening out in the main area of the club. He was fascinated to see that the initial impression of chaos he’d gotten when they first walked in was wrong. The club was divided into several discrete areas, where people were dancing, talking, eating, and drinking, and there seemed to be a good flow of people. Just like them, there were large groups of people everywhere, and some of them seemed to be families. Everyone was in a good mood and laughing, and the vibe was infectious.

“Who wants to dance?” someone said, and Chris was surprised to realize it was him.

Both Zach and Zoë looked at him as if he’d just suggested violent revolution, but they made no comment other than to raise their hands and volunteer.

It took a few minutes for everyone to get their collective shit together, but soon Chris found himself on the dancefloor with Zach, Zoë, Alice, and Simon. It was fun even if, as usual, Chris felt like his feet were too big and uncoordinated. But the music was cool, and everyone was smiling and so clearly having a fun time that he was completely transported. At one point, Zoë and Simon were dirty dancing, then Zach and Alice did an impromptu tango that was mostly Zach dipping her. Chris laughed and moved along with everyone, enjoying the moment. 

Then partners switched and Zach was dancing with Zoë to some loud and crunchy EDM thing. They found their groove immediately, melting against each other in a dance that was both sinuous and kinetic. Zach’s concentration on her was absolute, his hands finding her hips, her waist, her ass. She too was fully committed to it, alternately pressing herself against and prancing around him in the kind of come-on reserved for highly choreographed movie scenes. That they were making it up as they went wasn’t lost on Chris, neither was the fact they looked damn hot doing it. 

Chris wasn’t the only one out on the floor who noticed; when the song stopped, those around them broke into spontaneous applause. Zach’s face colored charmingly as he smiled and took a bow, then took Zoë’s hand and kissed it as she curtsied. They all danced for a while longer and returned to the table for more drinks. 

An hour later, Chris could feel his eyelids beginning to droop.

“You OK?” Zach asked.

Chris felt like he was moving through molasses or trying to talk through water; it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “Just the tequila—makes me dreamy sometimes.” He smiled broadly, letting his eyes go nearly shut; it made everything glow and blur strangely.

“Dreamy, huh?” Zach sounded amused. “You’re dreamy all right. Want me to take you home?”

Chris’s reaction time was a bit slowed. He smiled some more before realizing a response was required. “OK.”

Zach ushered him out of the club and to the street, a warm hand at the small of his back, guiding him through the crowd, watching out for obstacles like tables and wait staff. Floating on a haze of tequila and jet lag, Chris frankly liked not having to really think about navigation.

Outside a line of taxis was fortunately waiting. Chris climbed into the back seat and lay his head back, hands resting on his belly as Zach communicated with the driver through the entire drive to their hotel. Apparently the guy was from Romania and had moved here to live with his wife’s parents, who owned a bakery. Chris kept his eyes closed though he never fell asleep, just hovered in that twilight area between sleep and wakefulness. Zach was asking about the bakery’s specialty (something that sounded like “Google-oops” but that couldn’t have been right) when they arrived at the hotel. Zach paid the guy and asked for the address of the bakery, which the driver added into his phone for him. 

“Now I know where we’re going for breakfast,” Zach said as he slipped out of the cab. 

“Who are?” Chris asked, getting out and bumping into Zach’s shoulder.

“We are.”

“That’s nice.”

“You are so wasted.”

“No, I’m not, I’m Christopher.” 

Zach’s eyebrows went up and he hooted with laughter. “Come with me, Christopher.”

They went into the hotel, crossing the lobby to the elevators. Chris followed Zach’s lead mindlessly as before, walking when he did, stopping when he did. His hands were cold, so he shoved them into his jeans pockets. 

“What?” Chris asked when they at last came to a door; he looked up to see Zach looking at him expectantly.

“This is my room.”

“Yes.”

“Where I sleep.”

Chris nodded. “Sleep.”

“Your room is down the hall,” Zach said, pointing with his thumb.

Chris’s eyes followed where he was pointing and then returned to Zach’s. “It’s too far.” 

“It’s twenty feet!”

Hands still in his pockets, Chris leaned forward so his shoulder pushed on Zach’s upper arm. “Open the door.”

Zach rolled his eyes theatrically and obliged. It wasn’t like they hadn't done this before—shack up in the same room when they’d been up too late or someone drank too much, so Chris wasn’t sure what Zach was complaining about. 

They went inside and Zach immediately walked across the large suite, heading for the bathroom. Chris followed some few seconds behind, leaving a trail of belongings behind him: jacket on the couch, red Chuck Taylors where he’d toed them off as he walked, his favorite white Henley on the bedroom’s door jamb. When he got to the bed, he stepped out of his skinny jeans where he stood beside the bed and was burrowed under the covers before Zach had even flushed.

“Hey! I meant for you to sleep on the couch,” Zach said when he emerged from the bathroom to find Chris already ensconced beneath the duvet. 

“Bed’s nice and soft,” Chris mumbled into the pillow.

“What?”

“I said the bed’s nice and soft,” he repeated, pushing the duvet off his face and blinking up at Zach. 

Zach sighed and began to undress, finally donning a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and nothing else. Then he collected Chris’s clothes and draped them over a chair. “You’re a disaster area, Pine.”

“It’s why you love me.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He got into the bed and grabbed his Kindle.

Chris, already lying on his side facing him, craned his neck up to see what he was reading but couldn’t make it out. “Whatcha reading?”

“Something popular and bestselling that you will stick your nose up at, probably.”

“Dude, not like, Nicholas Sparks or something?”

Zach set the Kindle aside and sighed. “What? No.” 

“Tonight was fun,” Chris said. “Where’d you learn to dance like that?” 

Zach shrugged and slid down between the covers, facing Chris; his breath was minty fresh. “This girl I used to hang with in college taught me a few things. I also took a few dance classes in high school when I thought I’d want to do musical theater.”

“It was really good.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you date her?”

“Who?”

“The girl who taught you.”

“Yeah, for a while. I was still a little confused.”

“I get it. What was her name?”

“Ivette Ramos. She was in the film school, wanted to make documentaries, but she’d taken Latin dance for fifteen years, and she was really good. Like, she and her brother used to compete as a pair. She took me to all these clubs.”

“Sounds pretty cool.”

“It was, I really liked her.”

“Was there a lot of chemistry?”

“I thought so, at the time. Then one day she suggested a threesome—with another guy. That was, uh, memorable.”

Chris’s eyes widened. “How memorable?”

“It was my first blowjob.”

“Giving or receiving?”

Zach winced. “Giving, and boy was I terrible at it. The guy was really nice though.”

“And you were really into it?”

“Yeah, insanely into it. That was the moment I knew I was gay for sure.”

“Did you swallow?”

Zach propped his head on his hand. “You’re full of questions.”

“Did you swallow?”

“No, I spit it out. Onto my t-shirt.”

“Did he reciprocate?”

“Yes, and I came in like two minutes, it was really embarrassing.”

“What happened to Ivette in this scenario?”

“She apparently liked to watch; I think she enjoyed herself, if the moaning was any indication. And then the other guy ate her out.”

“A win-win-win scenario,” Chris observed. “So was that your last date with her?”

“Yeah, but she was the one who broke it off, she said she knew. About me.”

“Was it rough?”

“No, she was really nice about it. She made me dinner. We stayed friends until she graduated. She was a year ahead.”

“So then what happened?”

“I think she’s married now. To a woman. She was bi. _Is_ bi. Whatever.”

Chris nodded but asked nothing more. Zach’s bearing signaled he was done talking about his past, at least for now. Chris was happy to have learned this much. He looked up and noticed Zach’s hair hanging over his forehead. He reached out and tugged on it gently. “I like this undercut look on you, it’s fun.”

“Thanks, I was feeling a little adventurous. I’m liking your beard too, by the way. Very salt and pepper. Very distinguished.”

“I have to grow it in for that thing I’m doing with Carnahan.”

“Ah, I see.”

“I really like it, I like the maintenance, the ritual of it. I’ve got this special shaver thingy to shape it and these oils and stuff.”

“Do they keep it soft and supple? The oils?”

Chris smiled and looked up at him through his eyelashes. “I guess so. They smell nice.”

“Can I be the judge?” Zach reached out and ran his fingertips against Chris’s jaw and cheek. “It’s nice,” he said, but his eyes weren’t on where he was touching Chris; they were on his mouth.

Chris licked his lips. “Um—“

Zach leaned over him, opening his palm to cup Chris’s face, and took Chris’s lower lip between his. The kiss was light, almost chaste. 

“Oh,” Chris breathed when their lips parted, then he slid his own hand around Zach’s neck and pulled him in closer.

“Is this OK?” Zach asked when they parted long moments later. He laid his head down on Chris’s pillow, looking at him uncertainly. Their noses were touching.

“I think so.”

“You only think so?”

“Well, you know, it’s not something I ever considered before.” He wasn’t lying. Chris had always felt a closeness with Zach, a sort of affinity he’d rarely felt with anyone else except close family. When Zach was around, all he ever wanted to do was to talk with him, surprise him, be challenged by him; just being in the same room with him provided a rush of satisfaction and comfort he felt with no one else. Early on, Chris had labeled it friendship, because he had never really felt romantic feelings for the men he’d dated before, and that had been OK. But this made everything between them suddenly different, and he couldn’t say if it felt better or worse, if he wanted it desperately or not. What he did know was that he didn’t mind. “Have you? Thought about it?”

“Not in any serious way, not really. I am now, though. A little.”

Chris smiled up at him as he leaned in for another kiss. They lay in the bed side by side, kissing languorously, unrushed, for a long time, asking each other if they were comfortable, and laughing at private jokes over what had happened during the press interviews that day. Eventually, the tequila and jet lag caught up to Chris, and he could no longer prevent the yawn that had been tugging at him for several minutes. He pulled away, covering his mouth with a hand as he gave in.

“You should sleep, you look wrecked,” Zach said. His voice was low, a bit scratchy after a long day. 

“I don’t wanna, though,” Chris protested. He had settled with his head on Zach’s shoulder, his own arm draped across his body, petting the soft flannel that covered his hip. At the mere suggestion of sleep, his eyes drooped shut unwillingly and he could feel it dragging at him, making movement impossible.

“You should. You don’t want to look tired for the pictures tomorrow.”

“Don’t care.” He could barely say the words. “Don’t want this night to end.” A moment later, he was asleep.

Zach’s arm around him tightened. “I’ll give you as many more as you’ll take from me, baby,” he said, and kissed him on the head.

 

\----

Chris looked up from the file he’d been reading, tears blurring his vision. 

Having been so close to falling asleep, he barely remembered uttering those last words much less any of what Zach had said. He now recognized that night in Berlin as the first time he’d admitted any kind of feelings for Zach beyond the platonic, but he never knew Zach had said anything quite so meaningful, never knew his feelings at the time had gone so deep. But here was clear proof that Zach had had them from the start.

“Oh God!” he exclaimed, dropping the file onto the grass and standing up, backing away. If he wasn’t dead already, he’d wish he could be. How much time had they wasted never saying what they’d felt, how much happiness had they denied themselves? “So stupid, so fucking stupid,” he moaned, raising his hands to his head and pulling at his hair.

Feeling at odds and so conflicted he didn’t know what he would do, he did the only thing he could think of; he left the garden through the front and headed up into the hills, hoping that a hard, punishing run might help. 

He’d gone perhaps two miles before he remembered he was dead, and there was no such thing as physical pain or exhaustion in this place. He could run as far and as fast as he wanted and never break a sweat, never run out of breath. Frustrated, he turned back and returned to the garden, because he had nowhere else to go. 

Looking around, he spotted the old olive tree that had been the first one in his “orchard”—the one that had already been growing there when he bought his house. It had low-hanging branches that were very sturdy, and he used to climb into it to read on days when the heat wasn’t too bad. He settled on the tallest branch he could reach that looked like it’d support his weight and sat with his back against the broad trunk, staring into the sky and trying to blank his mind. He wanted to wait for nightfall. He needed to see stars tonight.


	5. Chapter 5

Chris woke with a start the next morning, still in the tree. He very nearly fell out of it, he was so surprised. Once again, he didn’t recall falling asleep, and as before he had no aches or pains from the experience of sleeping in an odd place. He climbed down and emerged from the orchard slowly, approaching the bench with a kind of reluctance he thought bordered on ridiculous. His records box sat innocuously on the end of the bench, lid on, none of the disarray Chris had left it in evident this morning. 

He looked around suspiciously, but there was no sign anyone was around. When he lifted the box’s lid, he saw that the last file was on top, and everything seemed to be in order as before. It was strange, but not something he was going to lose his mind over. He was in heaven for fuck’s sake, he wasn’t going to quibble over a minor miracle, if that’s what it was.

It was early, so he took the time to have another run before heading down for his appointment with Virgil, able to take comfort in the familiarity of it this morning. He jogged through the streets of Los Feliz, taking note of what existed here and what didn’t. He missed having the downtown merchant district to distract him—sure, the buildings were there, but none of the shops were, and he could have done with the ritual of a morning cappuccino today, even if he would not feel or even require the effects of the caffeine. He wondered fleetingly how Elvis had managed to secure the cigs he had the day before, if none of the shops that would sell them existed on this plane.

By the time he reached Virgil’s office, he was not as upset as he had been the night before, though he was in a much more subdued mood than usual. He didn’t think he’d soon get over it, but he could compartmentalize as well as any actor.

Virgil presented him with a slim red volume as soon as he sat down.

“ _Zagat 2014: The Afterlife_?” Chris read.

“It’s an index, you see,” Virgil explained, taking it back and thumbing through it. He handed it back to Chris and pointed at an entry at random. “It includes points of interest, places to go for meditation and contemplation, as well as lists of recommended volumes about the post-life experience.” 

“I, uh, I’m familiar with Zagat’s.”

“Yes? I’m told it’s quite useful. I was supposed to give it to you when we first met, but I forgot. It’s a new publication, you see; not all of us are used to it.” He frowned. “I was much more in favor of the old ways—a longer term, mentor/mentee relationship. But you know how it is—progress, ha-ha!” He laughed lamely, and gave Chris an apologetic smile. 

Chris stared back, at a loss for words.

“Anyway, you can find any of the books and resources mentioned in there at the library. Have you been?”

“Twice. It seems like every book ever written must be in there.”

“Oh, they actually are. Every book, every magazine, every film, or radio broadcast. The goal is to house the entirety of human creative output, from the first cave paintings to the quasi-literate scribblings of the average _Letters to Penthouse_ contributor.”

“That’s… comprehensive.”

“Indeed. Now, let’s not delay your continued orientation, shall we? It seemed yesterday you had quite a lot of questions.”

“Sure. How long does this go on, anyway?”

Virgil shrugged and looked embarrassed. “Anywhere from two to four weeks.”

“That’s all? A tour of the afterlife in four weeks or less?”

“That’s where the reference guide comes in handy, do you see?” Virgil looked pained. “I don’t suppose you’d like to take this outside? I find the office to be stuffy at times.” 

He led the way to a set of sliding glass doors; beyond them was a small flagstone patio surrounded by a variety of exotic-looking potted plants. It was furnished with a number of comfortable-looking chairs and couches, a table, a modest water feature, and a small, portable metal firepit. It might have been any backyard patio in America, Chris mused, except for the life-sized, gilded bronze of Hercules that took up most of a corner. He stood with his famed club in his right hand, and something that looked like fruit in his left.

“Wow, that’s, um, impressive.”

“Do you like it? I have it on loan—it reminds me of home.”

“I guess it would.”

Virgil invited Chris to sit, and he chose a comfy-looking chaise; Virgil took a seat across from him. “This is really nice.”

“Thank you. So tell me, what do you want to discuss today?”

“I have so many things I want to know,” Chris said. He thought a moment. “Tell me about my family, about how we're all linked. I want to understand how that works.”

“Of course. How familiar are you with Hermeticism?”

“Safe to say not at all.”

“It's a very interesting philosophy, and like many, it's gotten many things right and many things wrong.”

“I had more questions about that too, actually. I mean, I’m no scholar or even all that great a Christian, but it doesn't seem like any of the religions got it right about what it's like up here. I'll bet a lot of folks wouldn't stress out so much if they knew there was no hell. You know?”

Virgil actually laughed. “You are probably correct. And we will get to that in a moment. But on to Hermeticism. A basic tenet is a concept known as _Sicut in caelo, et in terra_. It’s Latin, and the translation is, ‘As above, so below.’ Whatever happens on the corporeal plane is reflected on the celestial plane, and vice versa. You've already seen evidence of this have you not?”

“Yeah, this building. It used to be a movie studio. And Griffith Park—I couldn't believe it was here.” 

“Heaven is a reflection of earth is a reflection of heaven is a reflection of earth and so on in an endless cycle. It can be confusing at first—“

“You got that right,” Chris said, his brows furrowing.

“But comforting, I find. What it comes down to is that regardless of your plane of existence, it is all basically the same. The topography of heaven reflects what is to be found on earth. It may be cleaner up here, but it is all the same. The different ages, too, are preserved. So if I wanted to exist where I originated, in the Rome of antiquity, then I could if I chose to.”

“Why don't you?”

Virgil smiled. “I like the modern.”

“Could you go back if you wanted?”

“I do every evening. It is where my own soul mate has chosen to reside.”

“Interesting commute.”

Virgil smiled. “As you live here longer, you will learn there are very few constraints placed on the soul in Elysium. This is why you see no overcrowding. All may live wherever—and _when_ ever—they wish.”

“Where are we now, then? Or, maybe I should ask when?”

“We are in the now. We find that the recently exanimate are more comfortable if they find themselves in the exact place and time as when they died, and time for them moves forward from there. This place reflects the current topography of earth, with a few differences, of course. We have no motor cars, for example, and buildings used for commerce are not necessary, so they are given over to libraries and theaters, or to green spaces. And farmland is unnecessary, though that does not prevent people from pursuing the activity. 

“So too are souls linked here as in life, together forever. It has always been so, and so it shall remain.”

“Is it just families or what? I knew a lot of people. Are we all linked?”

“No. The links were forged long, long ago by the Omniscients, for reasons we cannot comprehend. Some groupings are quite extensive and others are not. If there is a rhyme or reason to it, they have not shared it.”

“And there's reincarnation? How's that work?”

“Once all members of a family have ascended to heaven, they may be reincarnated after a time.”

“How long a time?”

“It varies. Sometimes many hundreds of years, sometimes not. When it happens, it is voluntary and all who return to life do so willingly, but It is not my place to question it.”

“Like going back to the corporeal plane?” Chris prompted, keeping his face neutral.

A strange look came over Virgil's face before he answered. “I regret that I left you with a misapprehension yesterday. I said returning to the corporeal plane was not possible. It is merely discouraged.” 

“Oh?”

“It is possible to obtain skills to return, but it is very difficult I am told, and the potential for calamity is too great.”

“Calamity?” Chris thought that word was awfully fraught. 

Virgil looked suddenly very sad. “The allure of the living is a bewitching one. Their liveliness and vivacity. It can be like a drug. They are quick and robust, you see, and it is possible to absorb some of that into oneself for a short time. The souls who return find themselves reluctant to give it up, especially when exposed to their families. It... can diminish one, to the point where returning to Elysium becomes impossible for them and they are stranded. You call them ghosts, or spirits.”

“Jesus, that sounds horrible. What about their families?”

“They are bereft of course, but there is nothing to be done. They are forever lost.” 

“That’s so sad.” 

“It is indeed a pitiable state, but there is no risk if one is not tempted.” He smiled kindly. “But if one maintains one’s balance, and focuses on becoming acclimatized to being here, it will not be a factor.”

Chris looked down at his hands and began to pick at his cuticles.

“Based on the questions you have, you are clearly having difficulties with your transition, Christopher. How can I help?”

Chris felt a surge of annoyance. “Difficulties” was putting it mildly. Part of him was angry that he couldn’t just go along, be a model soul, and take whatever it was they were giving. But the rest of him resented being put in this situation to begin with, receiving an “orientation” that was anything but orienting. He felt lost and had more questions than answers. “When do I get to see my family?” he asked. “I mean, the ones that are already here?”

“You will soon be able to see those whom you know, especially those who are linked to you. We ask that they maintain their distance for a short period of time in order to allow you time to adjust.”

“For my own good, huh?” 

“For the good of all. There are many emotions involved in this process, and it is best not to rush into a reunion.”

“Seems like lots of the things that are for my own good feel kind of shitty,” he replied sulkily, but he could not refute what Virgil said. “Sorry.” 

“I apologize that our ways seem so counter-productive, especially in your current frame of mind. I give you my word, it will not be long.”

\----

Without meaning to, Chris found himself at the library again, finding comfort in its familiarity. There was often a fearful little streak in him he hated, one that made him stick to the familiar when he was feeling stressed or lost. It used to happen especially often when he had to travel to foreign cities when he was working—he’d usually stick to the hotel during down times, not venturing out unless dragged. Zach had always had a way of getting him past it, making him _want_ to explore. The world was Zach’s oyster, Chris used to say, and he wished he could tap into that feeling now, because he could feel that familiar hint of agoraphobia settling in. 

He found an unoccupied table and sat down to give his Zagat’s a quick perusal. Most of what he found were recommendations for meditation gardens or places to commune with nature—nothing on how he was expected to cope with being here. He wondered how they could call this an orientation program when he felt so off-balance and _dis_ oriented. They were blind if they thought this was supposed to be easy. 

He gave up on the Guide after a few minutes and went for a walk through the stacks instead, leaving it behind. He found a first edition of _Tom Sawyer_ as well as a full set of every single _Spider-Man_ comic book ever written. He settled in for a long read in one of the large, comfortable armchairs that were scattered throughout the place. It was comforting, and he found himself calmer eventually, though not calm enough. He’d only been here a few days, but he could not shake the loneliness and chagrin he felt, the sorrow at what he’d thrown away with his carelessness, the life he’d lost with Zach, and all the potential he’d wasted. He supposed he would get over it eventually, but for the moment, he felt restless and antsy, and he couldn’t have concentrated if he tried.

He wandered out of the back of the building, finding himself on a street he hadn't been on before. “Aw come on, what’s got ya down, kid?” said a familiar voice.

Chris turned to find Elvis standing on the corner, leaning against the brick face of a building with his guitar case slung behind his back. He was dressed in black leather today, and completely pulling it off.

“Death,” Chris answered, coming to a halt. “All these rules they’re imposing are getting to be a little ridiculous.”

“Hey, nobody said heaven’d be a day at the beach.”

“No, actually, that’s exactly what it’s supposed to be,” Chris said snottily, “it’s supposed to be the most perfect day at the beach ever.”

“Oh. Well then, OK.” Elvis pushed himself off of the building and gestured. “Come with me.” 

He walked along the block to the opposite end, Chris following close behind. When they rounded the corner, the sun got in Chris’s eyes, forcing him to close them for a moment. When he raised his hand to shield them and peered through his fingers, he was shocked to realize they were suddenly on the beach in Santa Monica.

Chris gaped. “What the hell—what just happened?” He turned around—twice—and was still amazed to find his feet in the sand.

Elvis, now dressed in white shorts and a blue Hawaiian shirt, a ukulele slung under his arm, turned around and grinned at him. “We’re at the beach, knucklehead. Feel like goin’ for a swim?”

“I…” Chris squinted out at the sparkling waves and scratched his head. “How did you do that?”

“Do what? Oh, you mean bring us here? We both did it.”

“What?” 

“It’s called translocation. If you will yourself somewhere, you can go there. In actuality, I got us here, but since you were willing to come with, here you are. QED.”

“You are shitting me.”

“I am not. Up here, you can take yourself anywhere—or anywhen—just by thinking about it in the right way.”

“So like, if I wanted to go to Disneyland, all I have to do is click my heels together three times and say there’s no place like...” Chris let his voice trail off—it was a poor metaphor anyway.

“Something like that. Why don’t you try it?”

“OK, um…” Chris closed his eyes and wracked his brain, trying to think of a place he wanted to go. Naturally, all he could think of was Zach, so Manhattan was his first thought. He paused, not sure he could handle being there at the moment, so he tried to think of somewhere—anywhere else —and found it next to impossible. After several frustrating moments, he opened his eyes. “Damn it.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I can’t do it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t sweat it.”

“Has it happened to you?”

“Me? No way, nuh-uh man.”

Chris narrowed his eyes.

“Look, it happens to a lot of guys—it’s nothing to be ashamed of or anything. It don’t make you any less of a man or anything.”

“Man, shut up!” Chris laughed at the ridiculousness of the conversation.

Elvis grinned. “Seriously, you’ve only been dead a couple of days, it’ll come to you. The key is relaxing and not pushing it. And I can tell you’re pushing it. You’re so uptight today, Chris, what’s the matter, buddy?”

Chris sighed. “Nothing, I just…” His voice trailed off as he thought about all he’d been through in the last 72 hours and a heavy kind of torpor overcame him. It wasn’t as if it was weighing him down, it was just that he didn't much feel like standing anymore. He sank down to his knees in the sand with a light, “Oof.”

“Hey, whatcha doin’?” Elvis asked, getting down beside him in a lotus position.

“Giving up. Being dead sucks.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Some eternal reward this turned out to be—I’ve lost everyone and everything. And like, I know there must be others who have it way worse—I mean, what about little kids or whatever?—but I just need to take a second to be shallow and selfish if that’s all right with you?”

“That’s all right with me.”

Chris picked up a handful of sand and let it fall into the palm of his other hand, then switched hands when the sand had all fallen. “I was in love, Elvis,” he said after a while. “I was in love with the person who turned out to be my _soul mate_ , and I was about to tell them, and like a chicken shit I didn't, and then I died.” He flopped down on his back. “And I can’t even drown my sorrows because there’s no such thing as booze here and all this quiet contemplation is driving me fucking nuts.” He took a deep breath, his intention to hold it and count to ten or something, but instead he began to shout, “HEAVEN SUCKS! I HATE IT FOREVER JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!” Then, for good measure, he began to beat at the sand beneath him with his fists and feet. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!!” 

He stared up into the sun with a resentful glare while his breath rushed in and out of him in great, big gulps. After a few minutes passed with no reaction from his companion, Chris looked up at him sheepishly.

“You finished with your tantrum, princess?” Elvis asked.

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Sorry, but you reminded me of my baby girl when she was three and didn't get her way.”

Chris sighed.

“And even though I have so far been one of the coolest people you will ever meet, I will not hold it against you.”

“Won’t you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I, my new friend, have already been where you are, and even though it’s standard operating procedure in this joint to ‘let everyone find his own path.’” He made air quotes and then rolled his eyes before continuing, “I am going to let you benefit from my own experiences. I, Elvis Aaron Presley, am going to make you, Christopher whatever your last name is I forget it, my own personal project. And do you want to know why?”

Chris sat up. “Why?”

“Because I am a good man, an altruistic man, and a kind man. But mostly? It’s because I’m bored as hell and I could never resist a pretty, blue-eyed thing if my life depended on it.”

“I think I’m flattered.”

“You should be—because I am straight. Now!” Elvis pulled the ukulele out from behind him and began strumming. “Who wants to hear a little ditty?”

Chris sat through a fine rendition of _Blue Hawaii_ and felt a lot calmer by the end of it. “Thanks Elvis, that was nice.”

Elvis gave him a crooked grin. “You like that, do ya? So did Ann-Margret, man, I used to sing it to her with my face between her thighs.”

“You are one class act.”

“It’s good to be the King.” He stood up and offered a hand to pull Chris to his feet.

“So what happens now?” Chris asked.

“First things first, we take you to the man who taught me everything I know.”

“Jerry Lee Lewis?”

Elvis squinted at him and frowned. “I am going to ignore that even as I remind you he is still alive.” 

Chris shrugged. 

“Right, take my hand, and off we’ll go.”

Elvis held his hand up and Chris grasped it as if they were about to arm wrestle. Elvis turned, tugging; there was another bright flash, and they were gone.

\----

“What the—WHOA! FUUUUUUCK!!!” Chris wailed, clutching Elvis’s hand desperately as a feeling of vertigo so intense overwhelmed him.

“Hey man be cool. You're embarrassin’ me,” Elvis admonished, though he didn't let go of Chris's hand, even leaned forward to steady him while he found his feet. 

Chris looked around at their surroundings in a blind panic. They were standing in what appeared to be midair, suspended above black nothingness. He could feel literally nothing beneath his feet, though he wasn't falling. It was dizzying and disturbing and fuck Elvis—fuck him in the ear!—for being so calm and unflappable. 

“Sorry,” Chris muttered. He had stopped flailing and managed to stand upright, but he didn't let go of Elvis's hand. “Where the hell are we anyway?”

“The Edge.” 

“The edge of what? Sanity?”

“Naw, just the Edge. Come on, there's someone I want you to meet.”

Elvis walked steadily and with no sign of concern forward, Chris hanging onto his upper arm like a scared grandmother on a slick sidewalk, nearly tripping over his sneakers. _What the hell were they walking on?_

The terrain they moved through—if it could be called that—was a blank space of nothingness, as inky black as deep space. In fact, that's exactly what it reminds Chris of. After several minutes’ walk, he realized they were walking toward a long, fixed line in the distance, one that stretched on into infinity. They were soon close enough to it—closer than Chris would have thought their pace accounted for—for Chris to realize it was a stone wall. Chris was immediately reminded of the wall that ringed the observation area at Niagara Falls: low enough that the view wasn’t obstructed, yet high enough to prevent folks from tripping or small children from falling. As they got closer, he spotted a man standing hunched over what looked to be one of those coin-operated binocular contraptions, peering through it at something out in the vast nothingness that was all Chris could perceive beyond the wall. 

As they got closer, Chris could make out more details about the man. He was very tall, perhaps six foot five, and he wore a loosely-belted brown paisley silk robe, a pair of moccasins and, as Chris could see when he turned around to greet them, nothing else. Unless you counted the long, iron grey wig that sat on top of his head, askew, which Chris did not. 

“There you are, Elvis,” the man said testily as they walked up beside him. From this close, Chris thought he looked to be about 70, with a pale, lined, and weathered face. His eyes, though, were youthful, piercingly blue, and filled with an active intelligence or cunning. “I thought you would be here hours ago,” he said in a plummy British accent. 

“You thought nothing of the kind, old man, I never said I was coming today.”

“But I thought it,” the man said, tapping his temple with a long finger. 

“You know, you think you’re a lovable old kook, but you’re just a pain in the ass,” Elvis replied, narrowing his eyes. Chris blinked as he realized his companion was now dressed in a brown tuxedo with a cream-colored, ruffled shirt and cowboy boots. 

“And yet you are here.” The tall man seemed to notice Chris for the first time, and looked him up and down with a critical eye. “Who have we here?”

“This is Chris, he’s new. Chris, this is my friend, Ike.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Chris said, holding out a hand. 

Ike stared at it as if it was a dead fish. “No doubt you are. What makes you so special, then?”

“Nothing, really,” Chris said truthfully.

“He’s my _friend_ ,” Elvis explained, looking perturbed. “He’s having a rough time of it and so I brought him here. Thought you could help him out.”

“Help him out? What, do you expect I have nothing better to do with my valuable time than to pander to your stray dogs, Elvis? I, who formulated the laws of motion and universal gravitation? A man with _my_ intellect? I am to help this… this… What are you anyway, young man?”

“An actor.”

“ _Actor_ ,” Ike repeated disdainfully.

Elvis stepped up to him and pulled his robe shut by its lapels, smoothing the silk with the palm of his hand, and tightening the garment’s belt. “I knew you wouldn’t mind,” he said, patting the older man on the cheek and winking.

Ike rolled his eyes and scoffed.

“Wait a minute, ‘Ike’?” Chris said, peering at him with sudden recognition. “Do you mean—Isaac Newton? Are you _Sir_ Isaac Newton?”

Ike looked down his long nose at Chris, clearly pleased to have been recognized. “One and the same.”

“Then it _is_ a pleasure to meet you, sir!” Chris said. “You’re probably one of the smartest people that ever lived.”

“Probably’?” Ike replied, making Chris squirm. “Very well, Elvis, I will train your young protégé, primarily since I’ve suddenly come over all altruistic.”

“Let’s hope it’s not catching,” Elvis said dryly. 

“Now then!” Ike turned away with an expansive gesture. “Allow me first to record my observations for the day in my journal, and we will begin.”

As he turned his back on them, Chris was aware of a large, heavy, carved wooden table he would have sworn wasn’t there before. Its surface was strewn with dozens of charts reproduced on pieces of parchment. Ike pulled a leather-bound journal out from under it all and made several entries in it using quill and ink, referring to many of the charts as he did. Chris watched him curiously. 

“Ike is plotting the movements of galaxies,” Elvis explained. 

“Really?” Chris asked nervously. He took another look around them—or, more accurately, _below them_ and realized they weren’t in some dark space on the celestial plane but very likely in _outer_ space. Another wave of vertigo overcame him, and he felt like he might fall. He grabbed onto the edge of the table in case he did. “W-why? Aren’t there people that already do that?”

“What if there are?” Ike said testily. “Are you saying the pursuit of knowledge is futile if one is dead?”

“No?”

“You should have a look,” Elvis said, pointing his chin at the space beyond the wall. Chris wandered over tentatively to the old fashioned tower viewer binoculars that Ike had been using and bent over to look through it. He saw nothing but a blank, beige slide. He stood up, peering out into the black nothingness in front of them, frowning. 

“You'll need a quarter,” Elvis said, producing one with a flourish, like some sort of street magician. 

“Wh— I thought we want for nothing up here? That money and the acquisition of material things were constructs of the corporeal plane?” Chris was quoting his Zagat death guide all too readily.

“They are, unless you're using coin-operated binoculars conjured up by an eccentric English mathematician.” 

Chris sighed and took the quarter, pushing it through the slot in the side of the machine. He bent back over to have a look, moving the thing as much as its limited axes would allow, and adjusting the focus. He thought he could see a giant blob of something, not unlike images of the Milky Way he'd seen in school. “That is amazing—how far out are we that we can see all this?”

“Far enough.”

“And what about the wall?” Chris reached out and touched it—it was cool stone set into cement, exactly as it looked.

“I find it easier to have a fixed point of reference,” Ike said. “Now then, are we ready?”

Chris and Elvis turned around. Ike had apparently finished with his notations and was standing behind them, ready to go. He'd changed his clothes, and now wore what Chris would have associated with a man from his century: breeches and a fancy brocade coat and waistcoat, a frilly cravat tied at his throat, a bejeweled walking stick in one hand, and a white powdered wig on his head. On his feet, however, he wore a pair of Doc Marten boots. 

“Uncommonly comfortable, what?” Ike said when he noticed Chris's attention. “Much better suited to long excursions than those glorified slippers in one's own time, don't you know.” 

“I said nothing. But tell me, how is it you all can change your clothes and,” he gestured vaguely with his hands, “conjure things up out of thin air all the time?”

“That, young Christopher, is the very essence of our first lesson.” He placed a hand between Chris's shoulder blades, encouraging him to walk along with him. “The first thing you will need to understand is that things work very differently up here. Mass, matter, distance—many of the constraints of the corporeal world here are malleable. How else do you think the souls of billions might be made to fit without overcrowding? Let me tell you, it's been the cause of much mirth for me. You should have seen Einstein’s face when he finally croaked, it was priceless.”

“What about Time? Virgil said you could live in any time period you wanted.”

“Ah, that is the one thing that remains constant. Time flows here as it does below. What Virgil meant to say was that all ages of man have been preserved here. It gets easier once you realize things like passed time, distances, the composition of matter, and other things are meaningless on the heavenly plane. You have but to will yourself somewhere and you will find yourself there. Eventually you will be able to do the same with objects, like clothing and maps and you know, those little jelly candies I like—what are they called, Elvis?”

“Jelly beans?”

“That’s right—uncommonly god, what? Anyway, it can all be constructed from one’s will, one’s desire. One should want for nothing in heaven, oughtn’t one?”

“That’s kind of the point!” Elvis interjected.

“Now then, the easiest thing to teach, believe it or not, is translocation. Tell me, have you ever been traveling, and you allow your mind to wander and explore your thoughts, and when you come back to yourself, you have no memory of how it is you came to be there?”

“Well, yeah, but I mean, I just thought that was, like, muscle memory or whatever; my brain working on auto-pilot when I travel a familiar route.”

Ike shook his head, an expression on his face like the cat who ate the canary. “That, my boy, was it.”

“You’re saying I’ve already done it—back home, even?” Chris stopped walking. “That’s… that’s impossible! You can’t just blink and show up in another place.” But then Chris remembered how he’d done just that the other day when he was jogging to his appointment with Virgil, and he shut his mouth.

“But of course you can. The only thing you’re lacking to succeed on a grander scale is ambition.” He held his arms out. “Why, look where we are, that is all the proof of that you will need. Let’s give it a try, shall we?” Chris looked at him like he was crazy. Ike rolled his eyes. “Oh very well, shall I demonstrate on my own, then?” He took Chris and Elvis by the wrist. “How about my favorite punting spot on the Thames?”

He took two steps forward. To Chris, it seemed as if a shadow had passed over them, like a passing cloud over the sun. When he looked up, that’s what it was—the sky was suddenly blue and filled with fluffy cumulus. When he looked around, they stood on a grassy river bank, the cool water rushing along nearby. On the far bank, he saw a broad expanse of meadow, and on the near, a small boat house with several flat-bottomed wooden boats with long oars beside them.

“What the—“ Chris felt dizzy with the sudden change, and stumbled. Since they were on the river bank, he overbalanced and promptly fell on his ass. “Hell?”

“Hey there, that first step’s a real doozy,” Elvis said, holding a hand out to help him up.

“I can’t believe it! Are we really in England now?” He looked around. 

“Pip-pip, what?” Ike said. “Would you like to give it a go?”

“Yeah!”

“All right then. The first thing you will need to do is to clear your mind. Rid yourself of all distractions, and it will be easier. Close your eyes if it helps, and think of where you would like to go. It helps if it’s a familiar place, one that’s outside, with a significant landmark. A hill or a building. Picture yourself there.”

Chris closed his eyes and let Ike’s voice wash over him. He spoke in a low, soothing voice—it was almost hypnotic. 

“Are you picturing this place?” 

Chris nodded. “I’m on the quad at Berkeley where I went to school, right in front of the Campanile. It’s one of my favorite places to go.”

“How? How are you picturing it?”

“It’s early morning and the sun’s not up over the trees yet. No one’s really around except this girl who always used to jog with her dog, a yellow Lab. She’s wearing red tennis shoes. I can smell the grass, it must have just been cut.”

“Good, that’s good. Your senses help you remember, they’re the best for that in a lot of ways. What do you hear?”

“I can hear the bells—it’s six in the morning. And the birds are singing.”

“Very good. All you have to do is take a step toward the bells. Do it, do it now.” 

Elvis gave him a gentle push, and Chris took the step. When he opened his eyes, he was disappointed to see he had not gone anywhere. “Oh.”

“Don’t feel bad, bucko, the first time’s the hardest. Just concentrate.” He gave Chris’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze. 

Nodding, Chris closed his eyes and pictured the campus again. He could see the Campanile stretching up into the sky, feel the dew in the grass soaking into his Chuck Taylors; if he leaned over, he could maybe smell the honeysuckles that tended to trail along the fencing. He stepped forward again… only to find himself still on the river bank. “Damn it,” he whispered. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.”

“Maybe somewhere else?” Elvis suggested.

“I think you are trying too hard,” Ike said. “You must blank your mind, Christopher, even as you focus your thoughts on the place you will travel to.”

“Yeah, well, that’s easier said than done, Ike!” The truth was, Chris wanted desperately for this to work. The thought of being stuck in this one place for what felt like forever was suddenly the most abhorrent thing to him. He could weep at the thought of being in Los Angeles for all eternity, his beloved hometown turned into a virtual prison. But no… he would keep trying until he got it right. If Ike and Elvis could do it, then he could too.

Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, Chris made his mind as blank as he could. He ignored the sound of the river rushing past them, the feeling of the breeze in the air rustling the leaves of the trees over his head, and just focused on his breathing. Then, his thoughts turned to a specific spot in front of the fountain, where the flagstone ledge was a little loose when you sat on it. He lifted his foot, leaned forward…

_SQUEEEEE_

Chris’s eyes flew open. All he saw was a yellow flash of something, and it was _squeaking_. His momentum kept him moving forward, however, and when his foot came down, it wasn’t on the springy grass of the river bank, it was onto hard, brick pavers. He took another step, and tripped over the edging along the grassy verge at the edge of the quad. He fell to his knees but was too astounded to notice. 

“Was that a rubber ducky?” 

Looking around, Chris realized he was alone, at least in his immediate vicinity; there were people strolling along the path on the far side of the quad, but they were nowhere near. Elvis and Ike had clearly not come along for the ride, and here he was, gazing up at the landmark tower and feeling a little disappointed that the carillon bells inside weren’t playing.

“Woo hoo!” he shouted. He hopped up and down like an idiot, chanting, “I did it! I did it!” to himself. 

“I DID IT!” he shouted to Elvis as he finally arrived with Ike. “I did it, I did it!” He hooked Ike’s arm with his and twirled him around, then jumped up to kick his heels together for good measure. By the time he stopped, he was out of breath and feeling kind of dizzy. 

“Hey, man, you OK?” 

Elvis was suddenly standing over him, the sun shining behind his head. 

“What happened?” Chris realized he was lying on his back on the ground; had he passed out?

“You passed out—it can take a lot out of you,” Elvis said, offering Chris a hand up. “You’ll get used to it soon enough.”

“Can we do it again?”


	6. Chapter 6

“Whoa… is the room moving? I think the room is moving.”

Elvis helped Chris through the door to his Beverly Hills home and into the recessed conversation pit in his living room, dropping him heavily onto one of the couches. “Whoo! You’re heavy,” he panted.

“I love this, this is great,” Chris said, flipping over onto his back and flailing around until he felt comfortable. When he closed his eyes, it felt like the room was moving. “Feels like being drunk. I miss being drunk.”

“I don’t,” Elvis said, going back to close the front door. They’d just left Ike, and since Chris didn’t feel like being alone, decided to come here. “I can’t believe how much it’s affected you.”

“I always was a lightweight—Zach used to tease me all the time.”

“Zach?” Elvis took a seat on another couch and rested a booted foot on the coffee table. 

“My, um… well, as it turns out, he’s my soul mate.” Chris looked away. “I dunno if that’s shocking to a man of your, uh, generation.”

“I did know Rock Hudson,” Elvis pointed out. “But seriously, I don’t judge. I was in the Army, I saw lots of things. Love is love no matter what, you know?”

Chris smiled loopily back at him. “I do. So tell me about this place.”

“I bought it for Priscilla in 1972. She loved the views.”

Chris pulled himself to an upright position to properly take in the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up two entire walls of the house’s first floor. The view of the valley below was spectacular, particularly as there was no smog in heaven. “It’s gorgeous,” Chris said, and meant it. Despite its dated décor, there were stunning design flourishes in the place, including the hand-carved bar and marble floors.

“It’s the last place I remember being happy.”

“Aw, man, I’m sorry.”

He smiled a sad, sweet smile. “Someday, we’ll be together again.” 

“I believe that.”

“It’s the only thing keeping me going some days,” Elvis said. 

“So why is it that you have an entire house and all I got assigned to me was my garden? I would love to have a couch this comfy.”

“Your case worker is supposed to tell you this, but the space where you first arrive, and the way you look, that’s where you were happiest and most content in life. For me, that’s this place.

“Over time, you learn how to change it, to create things from the matter around you, and change how you present yourself. It’s not difficult, but getting started can be a challenge. I can show you how, but I think it’ll make more sense once you’ve been here a while longer. It did for me anyway.”

Chris nodded, accepting that at face value.

“Some folks are perfectly content with what they arrive here with, and never change anything. I met Gandhi once, and he was one o’ those. Just sat there in his dhoti, humble as you please, chattin’ away about his favorite cricket team. I wish I could be that content, I really do, but I’ve always been one to keep changing. I need my props, you know?”

“I think I get it,” Chris said, looking down at his wrist, where the ever-present silver bracelet that had been a gift from his sister so long ago gleamed dully in the light of the setting sun.

“Like my guitar,” Elvis went on, rising to retrieve the instrument, which had been sitting in a stand along a nearby wall, “it makes me feel complete or something. At least until the important people get here, my soul mate’s still down below just like yours.” Elvis sat on the other side of the couch and began to strum the guitar’s strings idly.

“Priscilla?” Chris asked.

“Not her, though I loved her a lot. No, my soul mate is my baby girl, Lisa-Marie.”

Chris didn’t mean to do it, but he could feel his eyebrows lifting.

“It’s not like that. I was as surprised as you, though, when I found out. The groupings of souls they tell you about—your cohort—they might be related to you in one life, and in your army platoon in the next, it’s not always the same. But when I finally looked into my files, and saw who my soul mate was, somethin’ just clicked, and I knew it was true. That girl, she… she was special to me from the second I laid eyes on her.”

Chris thought back to the first time he met Zach, their first kiss, the way they’d always clicked. Looking back, of course it all made sense—they had a built-in affinity that had been fated. “Knowing it doesn’t make it easier to be without them,” he said, surprised he’d voiced the thought.

“No, it doesn’t. But think about how good it will be when you see him again.”

Chris felt the now-familiar twinge in his stomach at the thought of the time he’d wasted when he’d had the chance, and of the time ahead of him he’d have to spend without Zach, and resisted the urge to either cry or punch things. Across from him, Elvis’s random strumming morphed into an unfamiliar melody, capturing Chris’s attention. Eventually, he began to hum, then to sing a low-key song Chris had never heard before.

“If I should go, forget me never  
Please say that you'll remember me  
I pray the dreams we share together  
Will shine on in your memory

Each time a star falls out of heaven  
It leaves the sky a deeper blue  
So if we part, forget me never  
And don't forget my love for you  
And don't forget my love for you”

“Jesus, you’re a maudlin son of a bitch, Presley,” Chris said after a moment, his voice thick with emotion.

Elvis just shrugged, and picked out the song’s melody a second time.

\----

Chris woke the next morning feeling better, invigorated even. The translocation lesson the day before had felt a bit like a game changer, making him feel as if he was free. He wasn't sure from what he needed freedom, but he wasn't going to question it too closely. 

He arrived for his next session with Virgil with a virtual spring in his step. “Good morning!” he said cheerfully.

“It is a good morning,” Virgil said, failing to hide his surprise at encountering a cheerful Chris. “I hope you will continue to think so, I've brought someone to see you today.” 

Chris's eyebrows raised as Virgil indicated he should go out to the patio. His heart sped up at what this could mean—another one of those illogical bodily reactions he was clinging to—and it didn't stop when he walked outside and saw who was waiting for him. 

“Nana?” 

Anne Gwynne rose from her seat as soon as she saw him. “Christopher,” she said joyfully, holding her arms out to him. She appeared a lot younger than when he'd last seen her, and she wore a 1940s era sundress and sandals, a wide brimmed hat dangling from her fingers as she hugged him. “I'm so glad to see you again, oh, my darling!” She kissed him on both cheeks, then rubbed lipstick off with her thumb. 

“Annie?” Someone else cleared their throat, and Chris realized she wasn’t alone. There was a strange man standing behind her, dressed in period clothes as well: linen trousers and an open-necked shirt, his hair combed back from a high forehead, and a neatly-trimmed mustache. 

“Max, darling come and meet your grandson Christopher,” Anne said. 

“Granddad?” Chris said, amazed. He had died long before Chris was born—before his parents even met—and Chris only knew him from photos his grandmother had kept around the house. “I can't believe it!”

“Come here, my boy!” Max Gilford said, emotion choking his voice. Chris was struck by his strong resemblance to his mother and her brother. They hugged, rocking back and forth on their feet, then opened their arms to include Anne as well. 

Max stood back, grasping Chris by the arms. “My goodness, it is good to see you again.”

“Again?” Chris looked from one of them to the other, confused.

“I mean, for the first time. My, I never imagined a grandson of mine would be so good looking.” He laughed merrily, his voice a low rasp. 

Chris laughed, caught up in the moment. 

“I'm serious, those are not my genes at work, that's for sure.”

“Gwynnie married a looker, I told you,” Anne said, elbowing Max in the ribs with a twinkle in her eye. Chris was struck by how loose his grandmother was around her husband, how carefree and flirtatious. This version of her was a far cry from the proper woman who’d made Katie and Chris walk around with volumes of the _Encyclopedia Britannica_ on their heads to improve their posture. 

“You don't say? Well I can't wait to meet him,” he said with a wink at Anne.

“Let's hope it's not any time soon! Come, let's sit down and visit.”

She and Max took seats on the sofa and Chris sat down in the chair. Chris noticed that Virgil had not joined them. 

“How are you doing Christopher? Are you coping well?” Anne asked, resting her hand on Chris's knee.

“Um...” He wasn't sure how to answer. His natural instinct was to man up and deny anything was wrong, but he could guess he was being allowed to see his grandparents because Virgil was making an effort to help him assimilate. “I don't think it's been the easiest transition,” he admitted.

“Some people have a rockier path to grace than others. Young people, I find, or those without people here. I don’t know why that is, it was easier in my day, you just accepted your fate.”

“But I know how you feel, kid,” Max added. “I was gone before my time too, but I was lucky—I had my best girl to look forward to seeing again.” He looked sad a moment, then beamed at Anne. 

Anne reached for his hand and he took it. “When I think of you all alone,” she said with a frown.

“It was nothing,” Max replied, patting her hand. “It was to be endured, you see?” he said to Chris.

Chris nodded, touched at their sacrifice as tears came to his eyes; he was ashamed of his own dissatisfaction since his arrival—there were countless others who’d been through the same thing. He felt like a spoiled brat having a tantrum. “Yes. Yes, I do,” he said, chagrined.

“Did you know your soul mate, Christopher?” Anne asked gently. “You’re so young, I hope you did.”

“I did, but… we were never together. We never had the chance. I was about to…” he shook his head, cutting himself off. “Never mind, it’s all in the past now, isn’t it?” He tried not to sound sad, but it was hard.

“It will be better after Enlightenment, when you will know everything again. You should trust in that.”

“It will make bearing the separation easier,” Max added.

“Enlightenment?”

“It is the final transition a soul makes into the afterlife,” Virgil said from the doorway.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I take it you did not read your Zagat’s Guide cover to cover, then?” 

“Did you really expect me to?”

Virgil sighed the sigh of frustrated bureaucrats the world over. “No, I did not. Did I mention I thought they were a bad idea? At any rate, if you had, you’d have learned that people come to Elysium very deeply entrenched in their living identity. It’s a defense mechanism, I believe, a way to ease them through the shock of existence on this plane. You yourself have clung to the ways of the living. I will wager you have found yourself sleeping and longing for food and beverage as you used to?”

Chris was loath to admit it, but he nodded.

“Those are the last vestiges of humanity clinging to you, Christopher, and until you can free yourself of them, you will not find the peace you deserve.” 

“’Vestiges of humanity?’ Are we no longer human, then?” Chris asked.

Virgil smiled. “Now you’re getting it. There is another, different being inside you, one you have not yet learned to accept—one you are not ready to accept. It is your true self, Christopher, the being who has lived half a dozen lives among an entire cohort of other souls—souls that include the two you see before you, most of your immediate family, and yes, your soul mate. You, however, are in an unenviable position, because most of that cohort is still on the corporeal plane. Yes, it makes for a lonely existence here, but that is why you must persevere, so that you may ease the way for them.”

“My grandparents were here before me, though? And others?”

“The bonds between souls are stronger with some, weaker with others. We flow in and out of each other’s spheres. The bond is strongest among your cohort. You will have a kind of affinity with them you will not have with others.”

“Just like back home?”

“Yes, but on a wholly different level. You will gain energy from each other and from the universe; you will feel communion with them, and pure joy. That is what Enlightenment brings. It is the final transition of your soul to the celestial plane, it is a state of being where you will fully know your true self, and your loved ones. It is the total knowledge and integration of your past selves and memories into one vessel.” 

“Sounds like a big deal. How do I get there?”

“That’s the tricky part,” Max said. “You have to be ready to accept it.”

“And how do I do that?”

“That’s up to you, kiddo.”

\----

Chris left Virgil’s office with a lot to think about. On the one hand, he finally knew what Virgil had been alluding to all this time, but on the other, he was no closer to feeling like he belonged here, like the entirety of his existence hadn't added up to his being sent to some well-appointed celestial penalty box. He had been thrilled to see his grandparents, was immeasurably moved to have spent time among them, but at the same time, their Enlightenment only served to make him feel further alienated, and their obvious love for each other made him mourn what he’d lost more keenly. 

He canceled his appointments with Virgil for the foreseeable future so he could be alone and process. Virgil had been very understanding and let him off the hook, though he was clearly disappointed not to be able to meet with Chris.

He spent two days trying to meditate and failed utterly. The only thing that held any allure for him was working on his translocation skills.

Like learning to ride a bike, it had proven surprisingly easy to do once he finally got the hang of it. Before long, he was able to go anywhere he’d personally been before—and thus had personal knowledge of—with none of the side effects he’d experienced the first time. He enjoyed taking long walks as well, covering a lot of ground when he did. Just as Elvis had said, if he let his mind wander enough, he covered more ground than he’d ever suspected was possible. 

One morning he found himself on the edge of the Grand Canyon without remembering leaving Los Angeles. The views were stunning.

“Pretty cool, huh?”

“You stalking me or something?” Chris said to Elvis once his heart had removed itself from his throat.

Elvis shrugged. “I saw you taking off, thought I’d see where you wound up. Sure took the long way around.”

“I wanted the exercise. Helps me think.”

“About what?”

“About anything other than how fucking alone I am.”

“There’s always the library.”

Chris rolled his eyes. When he was alive he always bemoaned his lack of time to read; now he had eternity stretching out before him and he couldn’t concentrate on a single thing. 

“I come up here a lot actually,” Elvis went on. “Lake Tahoe too. I feel drawn to these big geological formations for some reason. They remind me of how insignificant I am, if that makes sense. 

“It does, I just don't know how it's supposed to make you feel better.”

“I didn't say it did that. Just makes me think, you know?”

He gazed out over the broad expanse of the canyon, eyes dark and inscrutable. Chris noticed he did this a lot, becoming suddenly silent and contemplative. It spoke to an inner life he suspected no one realized a man like Elvis could possess. His legacy was his music and his excesses, in that order, and Chris thought it a shame that that's all there would ever be. Not that Elvis seemed to care about such things. 

“I get it,” Chris said after a while staring out over the canyon himself for several minutes. “It's pretty damn impressive.” 

“You think this is great, you ought to see Victoria Falls in Africa. I spent a whole week staring at it back in '85. Amazin' stuff. You should see the First Gorge at sunrise, man. The basalt there is so black, it looks like something from outer space. It’ll take your breath away.” 

Chris squinted at him, then hauled himself up onto the railing that kept the public from falling over the edge. “Wow, that's... I want to say interesting? But I also don't want to lie to you, you're the only friend I've got here.”

“Screw you man,” Elvis laughed, smacking him on the shoulder. “Anyway, what're you talking about, alone? Aren't there family members up here already? Friends? Acquaintances?”

Chris shrugged. “I got to see my grandparents. It was nice, but you know, they’re different from me now.”

“They transitioned?” Chris nodded. “I know the feelin’. I tell you, when I finally saw my mama for the first time, I just couldn't stop cryin'. Didn’t help me none, though.” 

“They told me it comes easier for some people than others.”

“I never much saw the point in it,” Elvis said. 

“No? Don't you want to know who you were? Remember being with your soul mate? From before?”

“Son, I'm Elvis. Do you think my life was ever better before? I sure don't.” He hauled himself up onto the railing to sit beside Chris. “Honestly, I’m having too much fun without it. But you shouldn’t listen to me, lest you suffer the same fate as me.”

“And what’s that?”

“Haven’t you been warned? I’m a bad influence. I take risks, I flout conventions, I go to the other side whenever it pleases me.”

“Other side? Of what?”

Elvis stared at him as if he was an imbecile. “Wait, do you…?” Chris jumped down from the railing so he could look Elvis more directly in the eye. “You can get to the corporeal plane? Like, easily?” 

“I didn't say it was easy, and they don't exactly teach it in Dead Guy 101.”

Chris felt an instant surge of hope; if he could just _see_ Zach, he knew it would make everything better. “I suppose not, but you can teach me!”

Elvis raised a hand. “Hold on there, I know what you’re thinking, that you’ll find him—what’s his name, Zach? Trust me.”

“Why not?”

Elvis squinted up into the sun, clearly in the midst of a recollection. “You think it’ll be all right, seeing them, but it’s not. You think you might get some comfort out of it, tell yourself it’s to make sure they’re OK—to make sure you didn’t damage ‘em too bad. But it’s the exact opposite. It’s selfish, and it hurts, and it’s longing and sorrow like you’ve never felt before. I did it, I saw her—once. I don’t advise it.”

Chris was silent for a few minutes, letting the impact of Elvis's words sink in. “So you never went back after that? To Earth? Or the corporeal plane? Or whatever?”

“I never said that, I just said it was painful seein’ my daughter. I’ve been back to the corporeal plane lots of times.”

“Wait a minute,” Chris said, pointing at him as he remembered something. “All those Elvis sightings—was that you?”

Elvis winked. “You think I’m bad? That asshole Newton got a hold of the Sasquatch myth and spends every summer pranking campers in the Pacific Northwest.”

Chris grabbed him by the arms. “Show me!”

“Slow your roll, kid. Did you not hear what I just said about being a bad influence?”

“So? They already think it! And they’ve done nothing for me, so what does it matter?”

“Believe me, it does.”

“If it will help, I’ll get on my knees and beg. I’ll do it, I’ll do it right now.” He backed away and made a movement to do it, though he didn't.

“What’s stopping you?”

Chris looked down. “I mean, there are a lot of rocks on the ground.”

“You always been this much of a princess, Pine?”

“I have asked you not to call me that.”

Elvis laughed and jumped down from the railing, dusting his hands off. “But yer so purty,” Elvis said, exaggerating his accent. “Fine, let’s go. But not here, we need a place with more… impermanence.” 

\----

“Vegas? Really?” Chris asked, gazing up at the imposing edifice of Caesars Palace. 

Elvis waggled his eyebrows; Chris suppressed the urge to punch him in his flawless face. “I like it here,” Elvis said.

“You would.” Chris looked around them; as usual in Elysium, there never seemed to be all that many people around. “Where is everyone?”

“Not a lot of folks' idea of heaven, is it?” Elvis asked, leading the way through the automatic doors and into the cool darkness of the casino inside. “Not when there’s no chance of makin’ your fortune.”

“Guess not,” Chris said, hurrying to keep pace with him. As his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light inside, he noticed there were a fair few people around. Most of them were playing card games, at tables strewn around the casino floor. 

A white man with curly hair, neatly styled, and dressed in an early 20th century suit glanced up as they passed. Beside him sat a pale, young redhead in an old-fashioned shirtwaist blouse and long skirt. 

“Elvis,” the man called, nodding his head and giving a jaunty salute. As the others at the table turned to look over at them, Chris could swear he saw the curly-haired man palm a card off the table. 

“Harry,” Elvis greeted, gesturing at the cards. “How they treating ya?”

“Pretty good!” Harry replied jauntily as the young woman beside him pulled his hand into her lap, removing the card he'd slipped up his sleeve. 

“I can't believe you!” she admonished, throwing the card, the eight of hearts, onto the table. 

“Aw, sweetheart, don't be mad,” Harry said in lightly accented English. Chris thought he sounded like Miracle Max from _The Princess Bride_. “Besides, they expect it by now.” 

Chris only just noticed that the two other men at the table were dressed in late 19th century American western gear. 

“That's right ma'am,” the one on the left, who sported a bushy mustache and a neat black suit, replied. “It ain't no thang.” 

“You going on tonight, Elvis?” Harry asked. 

“Not tonight, but maybe tomorrow, yeah?” Elvis gave him a wink and kept walking, heading deeper into the casino.

“No problem.” 

“Did I just see Harry Houdini cheating at poker against Doc Holliday?” Chris asked, hurrying to catch up with Elvis.

“Kind of.”

“Kind of? What did I get wrong?”

“They were playing Crazy Eights.”

Elvis led them on a winding route back through vacant tables and abandoned slot machines. Chris would find it creepy if there wasn't a live ragtime band playing somewhere close by. 

The source of the music became clear as they reached the farthest section of the vast casino floor. There was a lounge set up there, with a small stage dressed to resemble an open-air Roman stage at one end, and a vast bar that wrapped around half of the front of it. This being Elysium, beverages of any kind were unnecessary, so there were a variety of flowering plants blooming in and around the bar area. Chris was reminded of a greenhouse at an arboretum he'd gone to once as a kid; these plants were tropical—with large, glossy green leaves and exotic flowers. The air in the space was surprisingly humid for the desert, and smelled pleasantly loamy. 

Elvis made a beeline for the stage, so Chris couldn't pause to admire the plants for long. As the King took the stage, the band stopped playing and vacated. Chris walked through the lounge, which was empty, and stopped in front of the stage, wondering what might happen next. Elvis paused, turned, and came toward him, pausing just short of the footlights. Today he was wearing the same outfit he had worn in Jailhouse Rock, with the dark pants and jacket, a black-and-white striped t-shirt beneath it all, and heavy boots. He looked simultaneously commanding and vulnerable, and Chris was just a little star struck all of a sudden. 

“What?” Elvis asked, the foot lights eliminating all shadows in his face. He seemed to glow with youth and life. 

Chris felt dull and logy in comparison. Elvis shifted his weight from one foot to the other and the spell was broken. “Nothing. You taking requests?”

“Get up here.”

Chris complied, mounting the stairs at stage right and going to stand beside Elvis. 

“Now,” Elvis said, taking a deep breath. “You ready for your first lesson?”

“In what?”

Elvis raised his hands to Chris's face and fluttered his fingers. “In piercing the veil between the worlds wooooooo!” 

Chris ducked away. “You had to bring me here to do it?”

“For reasons I shall explain in a moment.” He cleared his throat and straightened an imaginary necktie. “Listen up: there are two planes of existence, right? The corporeal and the celestial. You already know they share the same space and time. The only reason they don't collide and we have billions of dead and living people coexisting comes down to the fact that the planes are out of phase with each other. Like this.” He held his hands up, palms facing each other, as if he was about to pray, but he didn't allow his hands to touch. “Get it?”

Chris nodded. 

“Good. So one thing you’ve got to remember is that the two planes aren't as flat as two hands, they're bumpy and lumpy in places. They overlap and fold inside each other.” Chris leaned in close to watch as Elvis clasped his hands together, fingers loosely intertwined at the knuckles and curled inward. “So you see, there are places where they aren't even close,” he wiggled his two thumbs, which were not touching at all, “and places where they're very close.” He pivoted his wrists outward so that his palms faced up, and wriggled his fingers. “You see? If you look inside, you see the people!”

“You are an asshole, Presley,” Chris said, pushing Elvis's hands down. 

Elvis laughed heartily. “But I am being serious. There are places where the two planes are very close together, close enough to be breached. Ike calls ‘em liminal spaces, the places between here and there where the veil is thinnest. They're usually places of transition, like doorways or crossroads.”

“And the stage in a seedy lounge in a Las Vegas casino?” Chris asked. 

“Can you think of a more transitory thing than a live performance?”

Chris had to allow that he could not. 

“So these are the places where folks can pass back and forth. It's not difficult once you have the knack of it, and once you know what to look for.” 

“What do you look for?”

“Have you ever seen something out of the corner of your eye? Like you could swear you see someone but when you look, there's no one there?”

“Yeah, of course.” 

Elvis shook his head. “That's a glimpse through the passage between planes.”

“You have got to be shitting me. I thought that was some kind of physical thing, like phosphenes or floaters or whatever.” 

Elvis shook his head. “It's folks going about their business, only they don’t know you’re seeing ‘em. And it's not just souls from this side that can do it. Some of the living have got the knack of it too, though it's a lot harder for them. Takes a lot of mental fortitude and training. You ever hear of ninjas?”

Chris stared at Elvis with his mouth hanging open. 

“No?”

“Of course I've heard of ninjas, they're a myth.”

“Or are they?”

Chris rolled his eyes. “So are you saying that— _GAH! WHAT THE FUCKING HELL IS THAT?!_ ” 

Chris jumped back as what looked like a tear in the very fabric of the air appeared before Elvis. It was about the length of his forearm, and as he drew his finger through, it took on the appearance of some sort of filmy substance, its edges glowing with an ethereal energy even as the space around it seemed to warp with the movement of Elvis's hand. When he removed his hand, the tear shimmered and disappeared, the space around it returning to normal.

A flash of light went off and Chris scowled as Elvis put a camera down from his face. “Sorry, your face was just priceless, I had to commit that to film.”

“What did you just do?” Chris asked in a small voice; what he had seen was no parlor trick, nor was it a figment of imagination or a bit of debris floating inside his eye.

“I opened up a passage to the other side.”

“How? How are these things possible?”

“Have you not been listening to a word I said?”

“You told me why, you didn’t tell me how.”

“I believe I did.” Elvis pointed at his eye. “You look for the weak spots out of the corner of your eye. When you see a shadow or a person, that’s the spot. Then you can touch it, push through it. The less you think about it, the easier it is. This one here, I’ve used it before, so I know exactly where to find it.”

Chris glanced between Elvis and the space where the tear had appeared, licking his lips nervously. “Can you take me through?”

Elvis stared at him for a long minute. “I don’t know if I should, do you think you can handle it?”

“What’s to handle, it’s not like I haven’t been there before.”

“You’re not gonna get all weird and mopey?”

Chris laid his hand on his chest. “When am I not all weird and mopey?”

“That’s why I like ya, Pine, you’re honest. All right, you ready?”

Chris never expected the passageway between the planes would literally be as easy as stepping through a stage curtain, but it felt exactly like that. It was once he was on the “other” side that he noticed the differences.

Everything on the corporeal plane—and _of it_ , he now found—was somehow _more_. Colors were over-saturated, sounds too sharp to his ears, the very atmosphere a weight on him. The moment he stepped through, he flinched, putting his hands over his ears at the aural cacophony that greeted him. He shouldn’t have been surprised that they emerged in exactly the same place they’d left, but this version of the Caesars Palace lounge was crowded. A lunchtime crowd of vacationers and barflies sat shoulder-to-shoulder at the bar drinking watered down complimentary drinks as they paid more attention to their video poker than to each other. The house band was tuning up on the stage behind them, apparently about to launch into a pre-scheduled gig. 

Feeling exposed, Chris ducked down the stage’s stairs, tripping over a chair leg at the nearest table and falling over. He ignored the urge to just crawl under the table to cover his ears and hide when he noticed a young woman was seated there. He picked himself up, embarrassed; the chair he’d tripped on lay on the floor, a large purse that hung off its back had disgorged its contents all over the garish casino carpeting. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said to the woman.

She ignored him and continued to stir the ice in her empty drink with the stirrer, looking pointedly around the bar for a cocktail waitress to bring her another. 

Chris stared dumbly at her lack of reaction as another young woman came to the table. She was apparently the owner of the fallen bag, and picked it up along with the chair Chris had tripped over, righting it. “What the hell happened here?” she asked, looking annoyed.

Her friend shrugged and glanced over, as if seeing the mess for the first time. “I dunno, maybe the waitress knocked it over?”

“I’m afraid it was me,” Chris explained, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’m clumsy sometimes.”

“Well, did she say sorry?” the girl with the bag asked, annoyed, as she shoved her belongings back into it.

Her friend shrugged and glanced away, looking straight at Chris. Straight _through_ Chris, was more like it. He waved his hand at her and her eyes didn’t even flicker with acknowledgement of a man standing not six feet away from her.

“What the hell…?”

“They can’t see or hear us,” Elvis called, standing beside the stage. “We’re still out of phase with this reality.”

Chris wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed as he went to join him. “I thought you’ve been seen, though.” 

“I have, but I’ve had a lot of experience. It actually takes a lot of concentration and practice to manifest. You thought one little trip upstate took it out of ya, you have no idea what this will do to you.”

Chris was appalled. “Can it kill you?”

“What? No, you’re already dead, nothing can kill you. But it takes a lot of energy. The first time I tried it, Ike had to carry me home. I was only corporeal for like a minute, and it put me out of commission for a week.”

“Is that… is that why everything’s so… _much_ here?” he asked, flinching again as a woman at the bar apparently hit the video poker jackpot and began screeching with excitement.

“No, that’s just how this place is. You never noticed it before, because, well, you belonged here. Now you don’t. Me, I like it, but then again, I’ve never been one for the understated.”

Chris gaped at Elvis as he realized he was now wearing a white, one-piece jumpsuit open to his navel, its waist and sides encrusted with beading in a kind of fireburst pattern, and an actual cape. “Did you just change?”

Elvis shook his head. “I did before we left—can’t conjure up clothes on this side, or translocate—none of those tricks work here.”

“What? I thought you said… ninjas or whatever…?”

“They slip to the other side, translocate, then slip back here,” Elvis explained.

“Then how are we going to get back if none of that works here?”

“Same way we got here—the doorways exist in both places. Just hang out here, and I’ll be done in a bit.” A look of serene calm overcame him, and right before Chris’s eyes, he changed, his coloring becoming brighter, and darker. His voice, Chris noticed, was louder, brasher.

“Done? With what?”

“I do a weekly set here—helps keeps me sharp.” 

Chris suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. 

\----

“There you are! Man, I was looking for you everywhere,” Elvis said. 

Chris looked up from his seat at a table in the back corner of a Starbucks he’d found tucked into a corner of the vast hotel. “Sorry—it was all too loud and bright for me. This was the quietest place I could find.” He’d only been sitting there for about half an hour, and though his oversensitivity to light and sound persisted, the hissing and knocking of the barista making coffee drinks was far preferable to the din in the lounge once “Vegas’s Finest Elvis Impersonator (As Good As The Real Thing!)” took the stage. He tried to enjoy some people-watching, but found himself with a splitting headache instead. 

“You missed some of my best stuff—I did a Nirvana medley.”

Chris stared at him until it was clear he was not joking. “I am sorry I missed that,” he said truthfully. “Judging from the lack of people noticing you talking to an empty chair, I’m guessing you’re not—what do you even call it?”

“Manifest. Or perceptible. Corporeal works. And you’re right—like I said, it takes a lot out of ya, and I’d rather not have people think I’m nuts.” Chris noticed that Elvis, while still outlandishly dressed, appeared to look “normal” to him. He was not as color-saturated as the people and things around them.

“So what’s next?”

“I dunno, we can go backstage and watch the showgirls change?”

“That’s gross.”

“Fine, fine. We could go see a show if you want, or walk down the Strip? It’s Vegas, man, we have the whole night ahead of us.”

“Or what—we turn into pumpkins?”

“Nah, I just don’t like to stay too long or make it too much of a habit. You can get to want it too much, and it does you no good to harp on what you can never have. As square as it might be back where we came from, we don’t belong here anymore.”

“I suppose you’re right. Look, if you don’t mind, can we just go now? My head is splitting open.”

Elvis looked disappointed but capitulated. “No problem, buddy.”

\----

They parted ways as soon as they returned to Elysium, and Chris went home to re-energize. He woke the next morning as usual, in his garden, and decided to take a walk.

He wouldn’t admit where he was going until he got there, but by the end of the morning, he found himself walking beneath the stacked lanes of the 105/110 interchange in south central LA. He stood at its base, gazing slack-jawed up at the concrete monstrosity, which towered several stories over his head. After mulling over Elvis’s instructions in his head for half the night, he focused on trying to think of a place that best represented the idea of transitional places. Elvis had mentioned crossroads specifically, and Chris could think of no bigger example anywhere than this merging of two of the major arteries in the city with a light rail commuter system.

He walked along the empty freeway from one end of the interchange to the other, not really watching where he was going, Elvis had said the fissures between the planes were visible from the corner of the eye, so Chris concentrated on his peripheral vision. It took all morning, but he moved slowly and methodically, going from one level up to the next, all the while looking for that telltale shimmer or shadow Elvis had referred to. 

He got through more than half and was about to call it quits when the instinct that something was coming at him at a high rate of speed—something large and lethal, like an 18-wheeler—overcame him and he jumped out of the way. He dropped to his knees and rolled; by the time he came to a stop, he was laughing at himself. 

“That’s it, that was fucking it!” he said aloud, getting back up. Heading back to the spot he’d been in, he moved in a slow circle until he caught a glimpse again. “There you are,” he murmured. 

His heart was beating in his throat he was so nervous—what if he made it through? What would he do? But he couldn’t think of that now, he decided. “Blank your mind,” he reminded himself. “Don’t try so hard.” That seemed to be the theme in this place, right? 

He took a deep breath and rotated his body slowly and there it was, _right there_ : the impression, however shadowy, of traffic movement out of the corner of his eye. “Oh my God,” he breathed, and closed his eyes, composing himself. “Get a grip, Pine.”

He raised his hand, moved slowly toward the breach… and then past it. He couldn’t tell if it moved or he did, but in one second, he was nearly on top of it, and the next it was gone. “Dammit!”

He shook himself off and tried again, this time nearly backing into it. Again, the rift proved elusive. 

Over and over he tried, until he thought it would drive him insane. Sometimes the breach seemed close enough to touch, others it disappeared before his eyes. He didn’t know how long he was a it, but at one point when he looked up at the sky, he was surprised to see the twilight that passed for nighttime in Elysium had already descended. Had he been out here all day? Somehow, that was the most frustrating thing.

He fell to his knees with a defeated sound and stayed there a while, wishing he’d never come.


	7. Chapter 7

**Four months later**

“Christopher.”

Chris looked up from the book he was reading—a first edition of _One Hundred Years of Solitude_ in the original Spanish—to find Virgil standing beside him with an expectant expression on his face. 

“Yes?” Chris asked, blinking into the bright, midday sun.

“How are you?”

“Inquiring after my health, or making small talk?”

“State of mind, more like. I haven’t seen you in some time.”

“We did agree that I ought to sort out my head over the whole Enlightenment thing,” Chris pointed out.

“We did, and I am pleased to allow you to do that. But that was four months ago. I usually have seen most of my clients through the process by now.”

“What, are you on a quota or something? Are you missing out on a commission because of me?”

“Of course not.”

Chris marked his place in the book and set it aside. “I haven’t seen much of a need. I mean, I’m pretty much in limbo unless I transcend or whatever.”

“Transcendence is different from Enlightenment.”

“I said ‘whatever.’ I get along pretty well. There’s books and things. I saw my grandparents a couple of times, too.” They had come to find him the first time, and he had spent a half hour catching them up on the family. He enjoyed it more than he ever thought he would, but there was always a strange tentativeness with them, and he wasn’t sure if it came from him or them. Max always talked of events and people Chris didn’t know, and Anne always explained, but Chris knew they were things he would have known had he been able to achieve Enlightenment already. It was more than a little frustrating.

What Chris didn’t tell Virgil was that he’d also spent much of the intervening time trying—and failing—to cross over to the corporeal plane on his own.

“There _are_ other skills I might teach you, skills you will need regardless of your current status. For instance, did you know it is quite easy to travel on the celestial plane? There is a process called translocation through which you could explore the world a bit more.” 

“I know, I, uh, I learned it. From a friend.”

“Friend?” 

“Ever heard of Elvis? He was pretty famous where I’m from…”

Virgil’s expression went from looking pleased that Chris was meeting new people to one of dismay. “I know _of him_ , yes.”

“Something wrong?”

“No, nothing. It is just that many of us at the D.E.A.D. see him as something of a cautionary tale.”

“Oh? Why?”

“He is known to cross over to the corporeal plane, heedless of the risks to himself or others. I have told you what might happen already, a horrible fate awaits those who abuse it. I don’t believe he is a good influence, Christopher, not for someone having your… difficulties coping.” 

“Nice to hear you’ve got confidence in me,” Chris observed angrily. 

“And he has…” he glanced around him as if anyone might be eavesdropping, “he has refused his own Enlightenment.”

“Is that even possible?” Chris asked in a whisper. 

“It requires a very strong will.”

“Well so what if he did, it’s his free will to do with as he pleases isn’t it?”

“Of course it is.” Virgil sighed. “I did not come here to insult your friend. It is good that you have made one—such interactions are not just a vital component of a human’s well-being. I sought you out because there are still skills related to your re-orientation I feel you will find helpful, and I am here to offer tutelage to you. Are you willing to learn?”

“Things like what?”

“Like learning how to alter one’s appearance and conjure small personal items to entertain oneself. The absence of commerce here does not mean one must do without those trappings of life that bring joy, like clothing, or tools to build or make things, or musical instruments.”

Chris thought of his beat-up old acoustic guitar with a kind of longing he didn’t think he had more room for, and his interest piqued. “You don’t say?”

Virgil smiled, pleased with himself. “I do. Shall I teach you?”

\----

It took him a week, but with Virgil’s help Chris was able to conjure up his old guitar. The process was more like calling things back into existence than creating them from nothing, and it was easy once Chris understood that aspect of it. The guitar provided a welcome distraction for a short while. Virgil assured him that, with practice, he might be able to recreate his house if he wanted to.

One day, he was sitting on the beach, his guitar beside him, trying to remember the chords for _Both Sides Now_ , when he became aware of a shadow above him. Chris looked up, blinking into the ubiquitous sunlight that bathed the person standing before him. What he wouldn’t give for a rainy day. “Ike? What are you doing here?”

Ike looked around at the sand on the beach; the Santa Monica Pier winked in the sun behind them. “I’ve quite the affinity for the seashore,” he said with an expression on his face that meant the exact opposite. 

“Really? Me too.”

“Yes. I see.”

Chris indicated the blanket he was currently sitting on. “Care to join me?”

Ike, wearing his usual finery, looked as if he was weighing the relative merits of soiling his sateen britches against standing rudely over another person. “What is it you are actually doing?” he asked instead.

“Sitting here, just being.”

Ike stared at Chris as if he might gain insight into why he’d do that. “Is that all?”

Chris shrugged. “Isn’t it enough?”

Ike appeared to consider it. “No,” he said at length. “Idleness is the gravest sin.”

“I can think of worse ones.” Chris set the guitar into its case. “What brings you here, Ike?”

“Our mutual friend has expressed concern for your well-being.”

“Elvis?” Chris gave Ike a dark look. “He talks too much.” 

“On that we agree, my boy. However, I believe he is right, and that I can offer assistance. How long have you been,” he waved a hand at Chris vaguely, “thus engaged?”

“Since morning?” It wasn’t strictly a lie—he’d been sitting on this exact sand dune since he woke up that morning. Ike’s look of disdain told Chris exactly how unconvincing he had been, however. 

In truth, he had lost count of the days he’d been here, and not just on this particular beach. It wasn’t something he liked to think about, the inexorable march of time he would have to endure before being reunited with anyone he knew. At the same time, he had lost the energy to try to find anyone else here he knew, like his paternal grandparents—or Leonard, who he had learned had arrived several weeks ago—and didn’t know where to find it. 

It had been several weeks since he stopped trying—and failing—to cross over as Elvis had shown him. He’d returned to the interchange every day for a week with no success, so he tried others—even the US/Mexican border—and got no closer. He’d even tried train and bus stations, but no matter how many rifts he found he could not so much as place a finger inside. Desperate, he’d begged Elvis to take him back to the corporeal plane, in case he was doing it wrong, but no matter how many times he watched Elvis do it, he could not get the knack himself. It was as if he was forever on the verge of a sneeze that never came, but infinitely more frustrating. 

“Assistance with what?” Chris asked Ike, who gave him another withering look. “Fine,” Chris said, pushing his feet into his sneakers and standing up. “I don't know why he'd send you here, Ike. You're the last person capable of making me feel better.”

“And making anyone feel better is the last thing I am capable of, but Elvis seems to think I can help you.”

Chris scoffed. “Elvis can find a breach in a men's room, he's the best at it. If he can't help me do it, what can you do?”

“Who do you think taught Elvis?” Ike asked with the raise of a fluffy eyebrow. “When he came to me, he could barely grasp translocation. By the end of our first session he was a proficient.” 

“You taught him that fast?”

“I will not take credit for his innate talent; I was able to help him tap into it.” 

“What makes you so sure you can help me?”

“I am not confident at all. Elvis, however, is, and I owed him a favor.”

Chris was touched by his friend's gesture, and tried to shake his apathetic mood. “He's a pretty good guy, huh?”

“Yes, not unlike a moss or mold—he grows on you. Now then, show me your technique and I will offer criticism. Take me to the place where you have been making the attempt.” 

“You mean it?” Chris could feel his cheeks heat up. He didn't know why, but he felt embarrassed now to be so eager, as if his desperation were somehow a sin, even in this place where sin had no definition. Ike’s expression told him he’d better swallow his doubts and get on with it. 

Chris translocated them to the freeway interchange.

“That was done handily,” Ike said beside him. When Chris glanced at him, he’d changed his clothes into simple brown breeches, an open-necked shirt, and an unbuttoned waistcoat. His wig, too, had been discarded, his natural hair grey and thick, closely shorn to his scalp. He was attractive for a man his age—and of his age, Chris supposed.

“Yes. I don't know why, I have no problem with getting around. Elvis says it's basically the same skillset, but I'm never able to maintain a connection long enough to break through.”

“Let us see about that,” Ike said, and looked around them, evaluating their location. “The interchange between two freeways, an interesting choice.” 

“Yeah, I figured as much. Elvis said crossroads were places where a wrinkle could be found, so I figured this had to be the biggest one, like ever.”

“A valid assumption. Have you found any spots? Show me.”

Chris led Ike to the spot in the stacked overpass where one freeway passed directly over the other, its width subdivided into a half dozen on- and off-ramps. The vast concrete structure shaded them from above and he could see the shimmer in the fabric of reality now without even doing the side-eye thing. It seemed to wink at him, reminding him of his failure. He sidled up to it as he had done dozens, even hundreds, of times now; predictably, it seemed to bow out and evade his touch the closer he got to it.

“Try it again,” Ike suggested, as he walked to the opposite side of the rift. 

Once more, Chris attempted to reach into the space between two realities, to catch hold of the curtain-like substance and pull it open to allow him to go through, and once more it danced away from him. “You see, it’s like two opposite magnets repelling each other—it’s like, rejecting my presence or something. And it’s not just this one, I’ve been to others and had the same result.”

“What are your thoughts as you do it?”

“Nothing, i… just try to think of nothing like when I translocate.”

Ike nodded, reached out, and pulled the rift open. Chris dodged out of the way as a small sedan appeared to be heading right for him, but Ike let the veil drop and luckily for all concerned, the car stayed on the corporeal plane.

“Now you’re just showing off,” Chris said darkly.

“No, I am merely experienced. That said, I think I can take you to a spot that may be more conducive to a positive result.”

“Forgive me for feeling dubious about that.”

“My boy, I will not. Shall we?”

\----

“Where the hell are we?” Chris asked, gaping at their surroundings. They were standing in the middle of yet another freeway, six wide lanes cutting a swath through rich, flat farmland that stretched on for what seemed like forever. 

“I believe it is called ‘Iowahh,’” Ike said, over-enunciating the word. He pointed past a nearby exit ramp to a large building that sprawled beyond it, tucked beyond an overpass. “That is our destination.”

“A rest stop?” Chris asked, flinching at stating the obvious so readily, but his brain wasn't really catching up. “I mean...” he searched for a better way to describe it, but in his confusion he could find none, “a rest stop?” 

“No doubt Elvis explained about liminal spaces. I find places such as this to be among the best to cross over. It is neither here nor there. No one lives here, yet on the slowest day, its population numbers in the thousands. Also, there is a Pinkberry on the others side! Come!”

Ike led the way down the ramp and toward the building, which, it turned out, was part of a much larger and sprawling complex of one-story buildings that included stores, showers, motels, and a full service truck and auto repair. It was, according to a sign out front, the largest truck stop in America. 

“I just can’t believe this place,” Chris said under his breath. He wasn’t sure if any of this would work. 

“Is it not delightfully low brow?” Ike enthused in his cultured accent. “And just the place for you to overcome your difficulties.” 

Chris eyed up one of those machines with the claw suspended over a bunch of cheap stuffed animals. “If you say so.” 

“I do, but you must too, Christopher, or else you will never succeed. If ever there is a skill that is reliant on confidence, it is this one. Now!” He rubbed his hands together. “Shall we get started?”

Chris followed him through the cavernous interior; as with so many other places in Elysium, it was completely deserted. He had asked Elvis about it once, and the only answer he got was, “Guess they’ve got more important places to be.” Chris couldn’t argue with that, and he figured that, in a place like this one especially, there was not much demand for what it had to offer. No one drove on this side, and they certainly didn’t need a cinnamon sugar-coated Auntie Anne’s pretzel. 

Ike called to him from a spot in the middle of an indoor play area for children, with animal-shaped rocking toys and small slides bolted to a floor covered in Astroturf. It seemed sad, somehow, for it to be devoid of children. Ike stood with an arm raised, his hand cut off at the wrist. As Chris got closer, he saw he had a flap of the rift that went through this place and was holding onto it. 

“Here,” Ike commanded, “put your hand here, beside mine. Do you see, do you feel?”

Chris complied, and with a surge of excitement, realized he did. “I do! I do, I—OHMYGOD EW!!” His skin nearly crawled off his flesh as he drew his hand back to himself, shuddering.

“What is the matter?” Ike asked, incredulous. 

Chris violently shuddered once more as he tucked a leg and both arms into his body; his balls may have also beat a hasty retreat. “Feels like spider webs! Oh god! Blech!” 

The look Ike gave him should have finished his balls off for him. “Nevertheless,” he said very slowly, “you did feel _something_. Yes?” 

“Yes.”

“Good. Now you will know what to feel for.” He withdrew his hand and the filmy substance that represented the fabric of the universe shimmered and smoothed back out. “You will do it on your own now.”

Chris gulped a deep breath. “I will do it on my own now,” he said in the smallest voice. 

“Such confidence,” Ike said sarcastically. 

“Sorry. _I will do it!_ ” He took a breath, remembering all the stupid acting exercises he’d ever had to suffer through in school, the ones designed to help him get into character but that usually made him feel like an idiot, and steeled himself. He reached out a tentative hand.

“Why do you do this?” Ike asked suddenly.

Chris's heart surged as he thought of Zach. “I want to see Zach again, my soul mate,” he replied, emotion ringing in his voice. “I... never got to tell him I loved him, and I need to see him, just once more.”

As he spoke, the rift practically leapt into his hand. And while it still felt like the thickest, clingiest, creepiest of spider webs, he held it tightly in his fist. 

“I did it?” he said with an amazed laugh. 

“You did. And do you recall that feeling in your heart just as you did?” Chris nodded excitedly. “That was why. That was your passion, Christopher, that was what was missing before. That was why you failed.”

Chris dropped his hand and tried again, and once more he was successful. “Oh my God, I can't believe it.”

“Just so,” Ike said with a touch of pride. “Now then, shall we go through? It seems a shame to come all the way and not get that Pinkberry.” 

\----

\----

“Have you ever wondered why there are no animals here?” Ike asked. They had returned to the celestial plane and now sat at an outdoor picnic table bolted into the concrete just outside one of the buildings. Ike was daintily spooning chocolate yogurt he’d topped with Nutella, Oreos, chocolate chips and brownie pieces into his mouth. Chris watched him with sick fascination.

Chris shrugged. “I assumed it was because they lack souls? Or, like, karma maybe?” 

“No none has yet given me an answer that satisfied me. I suspect it has more to do with the fact they want nothing to do with their human oppressors.” 

Chris laughed until he realized the man was totally serious. “I kind of miss them—the animals. Not having birdsong is kind of creepy, and no bees makes pollination kind of difficult in my orchard. And cats—I really miss my cat a lot more than I thought I would.”

“That’s the kind of attention to detail that is sorely lacking and must be remedied.”

Chris snorted. “Sure, and they should probably rethink this whole bullshit process they call re-orientation—more like _dis_ orientation—but there’s not a whole lot you or I can do about it, is there?”

Ike raised an eyebrow. “I expect not.”

\----

Two weeks later, Chris stood on the concourse of the Union Square subway station in Manhattan, waiting for a passing group of spelunkers to pass him by. Apparently people still had the urge to visit New York for vacations even in the afterlife, and the subway system was a common site for exploration. Chris thought it interesting they felt so, though he supposed being able to explore the tunnels without the risk of being killed had its appeal. 

He'd come here the day before so he could scope out where a rift might be, though it was really his way of psyching himself up to finally cross over with the intent of seeking Zach out. He felt, not for the first time, as if he was doing something illegal, and if he stopped to think about it he knew he'd chicken out. The fact he was so willing to ignore the rules was not lost on him; he had always been a law-abiding guy in life, and ever making waves was anathema to him. But his heartbreak had become an almost palpable thing, a dull ache he woke up to every single morning, and he knew deep inside that seeing Zach just once was going to help.

When the coast was clear, he pushed aside the veil as if it was no more than a stage curtain and slipped through. He found himself on a well-populated concourse on the other side, and ducked aside as a harried young mother pushing a double stroller rushed past. He remembered she couldn't see him a moment later, and followed her sheepishly toward the exit. 

He'd never had a chance to visit Zach's new apartment before, but he knew the address. Once on the street, he got his bearings and headed south, toward Zach’s place in the Village. He checked the cover of the NY Times on a newsstand as he passed—it was May. He'd been gone six months, and while he'd come back with Elvis and Ike before this, he still felt like it was more real this time. _This_ was his true first time back.

The weather was pleasant, sunny and mild, and for some reason, today the over-bright colors of this plane, the brash sounds he encountered, were not as objectionable. The walk was pleasant, and he could almost pretend he was here on business or pleasure, on his way to a lunch meeting, or to visit art galleries downtown.

Before he knew it, he’d arrived, and was standing across the street from Zach's building. The street was quiet for this time on a weekday. The building was a narrow one, with a small shop taking up the first floor. He squinted upward at the fourth floor windows of Zach’s apartment across the street. He wasn't sure what he expected to see. Would Zach even be home? He recalled suddenly they were supposed to be filming Trek 13 this summer. Had they gone on without him? Is that where Zach could be?

The idea made him feel like he'd been kicked in the stomach. He had to sit down. He was standing in front of a tiny Afghani restaurant, its front windows open to the warm weather. He took a seat at one of three tiny cafe tables that had been set up on the sidewalk as some sort of sad enticement to outdoor dining. 

“He's not home,” Chris said sadly, but he kept his eyes on the fourth floor anyway. “He’s not here and I don’t know where to find him.” Despair engulfed him for a moment and he felt like he might cry. 

But then a flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye made him turn his head. It was Zach, walking down the block toward his building with two leashes in his hand, Noah and Skunk trotting obediently beside him. He had a small plastic carrier bag in his other hand, the kind that came from a takeout restaurant: unbranded with a yellow smiley face. _Have a Nice Day._

Chris was standing before he knew it, holding his breath, but Zach kept his eyes on the sidewalk, only slowing once he got to the front door. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and fiddled around with them, then let himself and the dogs into the building and was gone. 

Chris stared at the door for several minutes, until a pedestrian walked right into him, tripping and stumbling. 

“Sorry,” Chris mumbled reflexively as the guy looked back with confusion at the sidewalk.

“Clumsy!” the guy admonished himself, shaking his head as he went on his way. 

Chris watched him go until he turned the corner, then looked up at Zach's apartment again. He could see shadows on the ceiling now, saw the cat leap onto one of the front window sills. He was home. Zach was home, and Chris was here, and he could swear he could feel his heart beating like a drum in his chest. 

He walked straight back to Union Square, slipping through the rift almost before he saw it, and was home in less time than it probably took Zach to finish whatever lunch he'd brought home with him. 

\----

It took Chris a while to get up the nerve to go back. At first he told himself he got what he'd gone there for, he'd seen that Zach was well and that should be enough. But he knew it was a lie almost as soon as he said it to himself, and he eventually admitted he wanted to go back, even though it scared him shitless. 

Chris had never been one for breaking rules, not ever. He'd once accidentally not paid for a pack of gum at the grocery store—it had fallen in amongst his unused bags—and had driven through an hour's worth of rush hour traffic to return it. So the fact he'd flouted every rule to break through to the plane of the living was a big deal for him. He spent days convinced that some afterlife policing agency would be busting him for numerous violations. When it didn't happen, he felt relieved for having avoided it, and then he began to think it wasn't so bad after all, and returned to New York two weeks to the day of his last visit. 

Though it was the same time of day, there was a lot more foot traffic, so he went to crouch on the stoop in the doorway of a building cattycorner to Zach's, watching the windows once more. He stood there an hour with no indication of movement from inside. Maybe Zach was out again. Maybe he was working. Chris was about to leave when he spotted Miles walking down the street toward him. 

He was talking animatedly on his phone and dragging an enormous suitcase behind him. Chris watched as he picked his way down the block like an unconcerned gazelle, pulling the bag along carelessly. When he reached the corner he stopped right in front of Chris to finish his conversation. 

“What? Oh, no, Zach won't want to come... Because he never wants to go anywhere anymore, Drew. No, I'm sure he won't mind if I go, more moping time for him.” He laughed at whatever the other person said. “Don't be rude. OK, I'll see you tonight then. What time? Nine? OK then. Bye, kisses, mwah.” He hung up with a secret smile on his face that disappeared as soon as he glanced up at the building where he and Zach lived together. Sighing, he waited for a pair of cars to pass before crossing the street. 

On impulse, Chris followed him, sticking close as he walked toward the building, the flip flops he wore scuffing at the sidewalk as he dragged his feet. He unlocked the door and struggled with getting the suitcase through, so Chris found it easy to slip through right beside him. 

The building’s lobby was tiny, with tiled floors and, for some reason, marble wainscoting that reminded Chris of the mausoleum where his paternal grandparents were buried. Miles paused to check the mailbox, from which he removed a substantial amount of mail. He made annoyed sounds as he attempted to manage it all along with the suitcase and called for the elevator. Once inside, Chris watched as Miles keyed in a code on a numbered keypad. 

The apartment took up the whole of the fourth floor, and the elevator opened up right in the middle of it. There was a hallway that led from the living room at the front end to a couple of bedrooms at the other, which were located to the right. The dining room and adjacent kitchen were directly in front of Chris when he stepped off the elevator behind Miles, and the machinery whined behind him as the door rattled closed and the elevator returned to the ground floor. 

“Babe?” Miles called out, dumping the mail on a side table that was already overflowing with envelopes and catalogs. He bent over to pet the dogs as they milled excitedly around his legs. “You home?”

Miles turned left and walked through to the front room, a large and airy space with light pine floors and white walls. The furniture was some stuff Chris recognized from Zach's old apartment, some of the art was from his LA house, and there were sheer white curtains hanging from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Chris caught a glimpse of the Afghani cafe across the street as he moved around the room’s perimeter. 

“You get out at all today?” Miles asked a pile of blankets on the couch. 

Chris realized with a start that the pile of blankets was actually Zach. He was dressed in sweats and a ratty beige cardigan whose sleeves were too short. “Not really,” Zach answered. “I had a con call with Neal before, and a budget review with Maura. Took the dogs for a walk.” 

“Did you have lunch?”

“Don’t remember.” Zach stretched against the back of the couch as Miles approached, lips pursed for a kiss. Miles patted him on the head instead. 

Miles rubbed his fingers together with distaste. “Ick, have you even showered today? Or this week?” 

“Don't remember. You know how distracted I get when I'm working.”

“That’s been happening all too frequently lately. Come on, get up and take a shower. And put that damn sweater in the laundry, will you? It'll be able to stand on its own soon.”

Zach laughed good-naturedly. “Maybe later, I’m on a roll with these scripts. I really think I’ve got the next production for Before the Door in here, I do.”

Miles pouted in a way Chris thought was supposed to be a joke, though he must have missed something in the interpretation. “Fine, be smelly. I’m going to go take a shower my own self, and you can’t come.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me how your weekend in the Hamptons was? How were Kirby and Ian? I need all the gossip!”

“Gossip’s for good boys who wash behind their ears,” Miles said with a frown. “Seriously, babe, I need to go wash the Jitney off before it sticks.”

Chris stood in the corner of the room over by the window as they talked, nearly paralyzed by his own audacity. He’d had no intention of coming up here, had thought he would maybe lightly stalk Zach around the city a couple of times until the ache in his chest subsided a bit. He hadn't planned on actual interaction. Or whatever this was. 

Zach smiled indulgently at his boyfriend. “Fine, you can tell me later at dinner.”

“Oh, no can do, I’m going to that gallery opening with Drew, remember? I mentioned it weeks ago! You know how cray he gets if you cancel.”

Zach frowned. “Gallery opening? I don’t remember—“

“Oh sure you do!” Miles said breezily as he walked out of the room toward the back of the apartment. “It’s that photographer from Iceland? All the pictures of bleak glaciers you can stand.” His voice faded as he got farther away. 

“He’s a lying liar who lies!” Chris said, shocked, once he’d gone, a hand over his mouth. Zach showed no sign he’d heard him. Chris kept his eyes on Zach, who seemed to relax as soon as Miles had gone.

Zach settled into the back of the couch and closed his eyes for a moment. Harold jumped from the cat seat in the windowsill and padded over, leaping into his owner's lap and hunkering down to knead at Zach's belly. Zach's hand came up to fiddle with the elderly cat's ears. 

“I see some people don't object to my sweater,” he said with a dry chuckle. He glanced at the pile of scripts he'd been working on and Chris saw they'd been arranged into several careful piles. The smallest pile contained all of three manuscripts, clearly well-read, with dog-eared pages and scribbled post-it notes sticking out of them—these were probably the yesses. The one Chris guessed was the no pile was the largest. 

“Should we get back to work then?” Zach asked Harold. The cat purred more loudly and settled on top of Zach's lap, burying his front paws beneath him. “Yeah, let's take a break.”

Zach pulled his iPhone out from somewhere amidst the throw blankets that covered him to check his messages. From Chris's vantage in the corner of the room, he couldn't guess what he was looking at, but after several moments' swiping of his thumb across the face of the thing, he seemed to settle on one thing. 

“Oh my, I remember that night,” Zach said with a smile that made his eyes crinkle. He sat staring for so long, Chris became curious. He skirted the edge of the room so he could peer over Zach's shoulder. 

“Oh,” Chris whispered as he saw the photo Zach was staring at. It was of Chris, taken during the Into Darkness press tour. One of the premiere parties, where they were all seated at a large table at some fancy restaurant somewhere. The whole cast had talked and glad-handed their way through an interminable evening of press lines and red carpets, their good humor and a fair amount of champagne and inside jokes fueling them. He seemed to remember Karl putting a microphone in his mouth somewhere along the line. Was it that night? For some reason, Chris couldn't recall exactly which, and it disturbed him. He'd been forgetting a lot of these details lately. 

But not Zach, apparently. “Our last night together,” he said quietly, his thumb still hovering over the photo, and then Chris remembered.

 

**May, 2013**

“No, no! Come on, no touching allowed!” Zach laughed as he took Chris's wrists and raised them above his head, holding them down with the slightest bit of pressure. 

“Ooo, kinky!” Chris purred.

“Shut up! Now hold still, I want to do this for you.”

Chris sighed and bit his lip, pouting as best he could.

“And no pouting, or else I’ll leave you like this—all hot and bothered, with no company but your own two hands.”

“You wouldn’t!” Chris whined.

The mock-serious expression on Zach’s face broke, and he grinned. “Of course I wouldn’t. How could I do that to this face.” 

They’d been fooling around nearly constantly since the morning after the night in Berlin. Waking up together that fateful morning had flowed surprisingly easily into a pair of mutual handjobs in the morning, which led, naturally, to a shower together, a very clumsy blowjob, then breakfast, another handy and they were off for a day’s press. That night, after the premiere itself, they’d made out like teenagers in the limo afterwards, Chris dry-humping Zach and nearly ruining the Armani suit he’d been lent for the occasion. They’d spent every night since with each other, even curling up in the chartered flight back from London. Now here they were in New York, and rather than Zach going to stay in his apartment downtown, they were booked into adjoining suites at The Plaza, and making a lazy morning of it before Chris had to take off to do some morning talk shows. 

As Chris smiled back at Zach, he could feel a warmth growing in his gut that had nothing to do with his current position; well, almost nothing. Zach’s face simply glowed when he smiled, and it may have been one of Chris’s favorite things about him. He strained to raise his head from the pillow while keeping his wrists above his head. Zach took pity on him and kissed him, his tongue stroking against Chris’s with a lazy rhythm. “Shall we get back to the business at hand?” he asked when their lips parted, his voice all low and rumbly and sexy. 

Chris didn’t even try to suppress the shiver that went down his spine. “Yes, please.”

Zach smiled and kissed a long, slow trail down Chris’s breastbone to his belly, finally taking Chris’s dick in his hand and doing sinful things involving the tip of his tongue. 

Chris moaned, clutching at the sheets with both hands. He wanted nothing more than to bury his hands in Zach’s hair, the long strands on top silky soft between his fingers, the short hairs at the back and sides a prickly counterpoint. Chris was a tactile guy, he liked to touch _everything_ —so not being allowed was a particular frustration. But rules were rules, and Chris had promised. 

He spread his legs wider, however, which Zach took for the invitation Chris intended. He kneaded Chris’s balls for a while before exploring further with his fingers, lightly petting at Chris’s hole. They hadn't yet had anal sex together, and Chris wasn’t sure why. It was as if there was some unspoken agreement or something, and neither of them had really attempted to initiate it. Chris couldn’t say if he found it disappointing or not, and Zach never said anything one way or another. What they did together was enough, at least for now, for whatever it was they were to each other, for whatever it was this all meant for their friendship. 

Chris bucked his hips, gasping with surprise as Zach finally inserted a spit-slicked finger into his ass. Raising his head, he caught Zach looking up at him with a mischievous grin before swallowing Chris’s entire dick, throat muscles relaxing as he took all of Chris down. He looked utterly debauched, with sweat making his hair droop into his eyes, lips stretched around Chris’s dick and spit running down his chin. “Oh God!” Chris cried out, the sight nearly too much for him. He dropped his head back down to the pillow and tried to think of anything but how much he wanted to come right now. Zach’s finger made that a moot point, however, as he soon found Chris’s sweet spot. Chris’s hips bucked once more, violently, and it seemed a miracle he hadn't hurt Zach—or that Zach hadn't hurt him. 

Zach pulled off his dick. “You like that?” he asked, his voice thick from the abuse his throat had just endured.

A strangled groan was all the reply Chris could manage.

“Yeah, you do.” Zach wriggled his finger yet again, and jacked Chris hard with his other hand. Chris let out an undignified whimper and came a moment later, most of it landing on the pristine white cotton of the hotel bed’s duvet. When he was done and too sensitive to touch, Zach stroked himself to his climax, eyes closed and head thrown back as he painted the duvet as well. 

Chris lay on his back, sweating, watching Zach through hooded eyes. Suddenly Zach was beside him, and Chris kissed him sloppily, little more than smacking noises over whatever part of Zach’s face came within range of his lips. “That mouth of yours is going to be the death of me,” Chris said when he could speak again. 

“Shouldn't say things like that,” Zach admonished gently. 

“Why?”

“I dunno, bad luck or something. Chalk it up to my Catholic upbringing.” 

“I’ll rephrase then. _La petite mort_.”

“That’s fine, I suppose.” Zach settled down with his head on Chris’s shoulder and one arm thrown across him. The sweat on his body now dried, and feeling chilled, Chris pulled the unsoiled edge of the duvet over the two of them and turned toward Zach, curling into his warmth. 

“When do you leave for DC?” They were splitting up to hit two different cities before heading to LA for the official US premiere of _Into Darkness_. Zach was going to Washington and Chris to Mexico City. 

“In the morning, like 5:30, or some ungodly hour.”

Chris frowned. “Wake me up before you go, I want to say goodbye.”

“You sure? I know how cranky you get when you’re not totally rested.”

“You won’t have to deal with me, Zoë will.”

Zach laughed. “True. I’ll make the wake-up call extra-early, then.” 

Chris held on to him tighter. “You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.”

“True. Whose gnarly toenails are going to be slicing into me in bed every night?”

“And whose bacon are you going to steal at breakfast?”

Zach reached down and cupped his hand over Chris’s flaccid dick. “You _are_ very generous with your pork products.”

“They’re a crowd pleaser.” Chris sighed. “Sometimes I wish this all didn’t have to end.” He touched Zach’s jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath his fingertips. 

“What, all the jet lag and room service food? Please.”

“No, I mean this,” he gestured between them with his hand, “you and me. We haven’t really talked about what it means.”

“Does it have to mean anything?” Zach turned over on his back and stared at the ceiling. “Look, you know I’m not entirely over Jon yet, and you… you’re not exactly ready to come out of the big bi closet, so what exactly are we even talking about here? Dating in secret? Months of speculation? Is Captain Kirk screwing his Vulcan? Being stalked by the paps? No thank you, I get enough of it, and you hate it even more. It’s too complicated to even think about.”

His words stung, even if they were true. Maybe because they were true—Chris didn’t want to have to think about it all in this terrifyingly _practical_ way, but of course Zach was right. What were they to each other besides friends, now with added benefits? Chris could just see it crashing and burning. Rationally, he knew it had to end. It just hurt to see it coming. 

“I hate when you’re right.”

“I do too, sometimes,” Zach admitted, then kissed him, sweetly, before getting up to take a shower.

\----

 

Chris felt an irrational—and imaginary—chill at the memory. He and Zach never had the chance to be intimate again, and three months later, Miles came into the picture. Chris regretted not making more of a play for Zach, even if it all made sense at the time. As he watched his friend fall deeper in love, he told himself he was happy for him, and that his regrets were manageable. But as he celebrated with Zach on the night he’d put his LA house on the market, and when he’d read about the large apartment in Greenwich Village Zach and Miles had bought _together_ , he realized how wrong he’d been, how in love with Zach he had been all along, and that he might choke if he didn’t tell him. That he ultimately couldn’t would, he thought, haunt him for eternity. Quite literally.

Chris sighed, not wanting to dwell on it for much longer. As he glanced away, he caught sight of the label of the nondescript cardigan Zach wore. It was familiar—more than familiar. “What the...?”

Without thinking, he reached out toward Zach, and as he extended his hand, he felt a strange jolt go up his arm. Looking at his hand, he saw its coloration had changed—had become more like the reality that surrounded him, much like what happened when Elvis manifested. Had he just done the same with his hand? Well, he’d done it, and it had been for a reason.

Reaching out, he pulled the collar of the sweater back to get a clearer look at the label. Emporio Armani it read. He looked down at the left sleeve, and saw a small bleach stain on the cuff, remembered the laundry mishap that had put it there what—four years ago? The sweater was his… had Zach stolen it at some point? The last time Chris recalled wearing it was on the press tour for _Into Darkness_. 

In surprise, he flexed his hand and it flickered back into proper phase, but just then, the tips of his fingers brushed against the bare skin of Zach’s neck. Zach flinched—violently—his whole body stiffening at the contact, as if he was convulsing. At the same time, Harold rose from his lap so abruptly Chris nearly yelled with alarm. The cat hissed viciously, and growled, and when Chris pulled his hand away, it was clear the cat's eyes were tracking it, until it returned in phase with the rest of Chris’s body. Chris held the hand cradled against his chest—it tingled with the worst pins and needles Chris could ever remember having.

“Harold!” Zach scolded, but the cat tore out of the room before Zach could do anything more. Zach shook himself, shivering from his reaction to Chris’s touch. Chris stared at him, horrified at the physical reaction his touch had caused. Had he hurt Zach?

“Babe?”

Chris jumped aside as Miles made his presence known once more; Zach jumped too, and quickly shut his phone down.

“I’m going down to the corner for a coffee, you want one?”

Chris rode the elevator down with Miles and was out of the building three minutes later, swearing he was never going back.


	8. Chapter 8

This time, Chris stayed away a whole month. 

He didn't really have enough words to describe what it felt like to see Zach again. He remembered what Elvis had said about seeing his daughter again: pain like he'd never felt before. That was truer than Chris would have thought possible, but there was something more. 

There was a yawning hole at Chris’s core he had never experienced before, a physical pull he felt exerting itself in Zach's presence, that he could feel even now. The romantic in him thought of it as the space that would have been filled had he and Zach ever gotten together. Could there be a better feeling than two soul mates finally joining? Two wholes creating something greater than the sum of them? No wonder he was so miserable, he had been so close to it and had let it slip through his fingers.

He supposed he could ask Virgil about it, but it had been many weeks since their last session and Chris just didn't think it'd do him any good. Plus, what was he going to say, that he'd broken the one damn rule that seemed to be in effect around here?

It was this feeling that would take him back to New York. But first, he was going to make Elvis teach him how to manifest.

\----

“Oh my God, why did you let me make you teach me how to manifest?” Chris complained, lying on his back on the ground of a deserted parking level at Caesars Palace in Vegas. His body was still twitching with the aftershocks of his first full-body manifestation. 

“Are you seriously asking me this question right now?” Elvis asked, standing over him.

“It’s like my foot fell asleep, but instead of my foot, it’s my entire body, and instead of being asleep, it’s really just all my blood vessels trying to shoot themselves out through my pores!”

“Sounds about right,” Elvis said dispassionately.

“Why do you do this? Why?”

Elvis shrugged. “It’s kind of a rush.”

Chris stared at him for a beat until he realized he was serious. “Help me up?” He reached an arm out and Elvis helped him to his feet. Chris flinched—he felt like his entire body was a bruise. “Damn! Does it get any better? I mean, is it like translocation, where it made me sick that first time?”

“Nope, it’s pretty much the same every time.”

“Were you always this big a glutton for self-destruction?”

“Have you met me?”

“Remind me to introduce you to my mother when she gets here—you need help, Presley.”

\----

“I can't believe you're going to be gone through the weekend!” Miles exclaimed, drawing his knees up and pulling the T-shirt he wore over them. “It's two whole weekends without you, baby!”

Chris, using his newly-acquired skills of manifestation, had been able to enter the apartment using the back stairs, and had arrived in time to find Zach just about to leave for Los Angeles on a business trip.

Zach, looking harried as he juggled luggage, his phone, sunglasses, and keys, raised an eyebrow at his boyfriend. “Pouting? Really? You're a grown-ass man, Miles.”

“You like it when I pout.” 

“Not when I'm late, the Uber's waiting downstairs, and I can't find my keys,” he said in a less salty voice as he walked over to Miles, bent over, and pecked him on the cheek

“They're in your hand. And nuh-uh, that is not a proper goodbye kiss. Come here.” 

Chris averted his eyes as Miles snaked a hand around the back of Zach's neck and pulled him in for a sloppy kiss. He had the grace to feel bad for intruding, but not too bad; he'd waited around over an hour for the mailman to come so he could sneak into the building, and he wasn't going to squander this. 

“You trying to make me forget to leave?” Zach asked. 

“I want to make you remember to come back,” Miles said with a sexy growl that Chris had to admit was pretty effective. 

Zach smiled and headed for the elevator. Chris had to hurry to catch up, and to jump into the back of the black Lincoln SUV that was waiting on the corner to take Zach to Newark. 

“Thanks for waiting, man,” Zach said to the driver as they got going. 

“No worries, mate!” the guy said in a light New Zealand accent that Zach asked him about. “You recognize it? Most people think it's Australian.”

“I've known a few Kiwis in my time,” Zach said with a laugh. The conversation went on in a similar vein as Zach settled into the plush leather seat. He pulled out his phone and launched an app. Chris was touched to see he was using a picture of him as his home screen image, the one of Chris at the premiere party. When a text came in from Miles, Zach ignored it and kept making chit chat with the driver. 

\----

Chris sat in the lobby of the Chateau Marmont, in one of the armless chairs set against an outer wall, waiting. He'd stopped short of following Zach onto the plane—even he wasn't pitiful enough for that—anyway, translocation was an infinitely better way to travel. If his calculations were correct, Zach would arrive within the hour. 

Zach was a creature of habit, and Chris knew how much the old Hollywood glamor of this place appealed to him. When he appeared thirty minutes later, looking travel-worn but otherwise well, Chris couldn't help but feel smug. 

After check-in, Chris followed Zach to one of the famous bungalows. Zach he ordered coffee service and pastries from room service and unpacked before settling down at the table in the main room with his MacBook, reading through emails until there was a knock on the door. It was a literary agent, a representative of the author of a book called _The Cupboy_ , the title of which Chris recognized only because Zach used to talk about it constantly. Apparently, Zach was interested in the film rights, and this was the first meeting to discuss it. Chris was impressed with Zach’s command of the material and the way he was so focused on the concerns of the writer. He’d never had the chance to see Business Zach in action before, and it was fun—like watching a television show or something.

Zach’s next meeting was with some studio types from Fox Searchlight, something about distribution or points of… some project or other. They settled down to discuss a lot of important business, presumably; Chris was mildly distressed to realize he didn’t really care. There was a time when these sorts of things mattered, but he just could not understand it any longer. 

He went to lie on the bed in the adjacent room. He was vaguely aware of Zach’s business winding down, and Zach taking another meeting right on the heels of it. He may have slept—he no longer remembered when he fell asleep anymore, but when he was aware again, he could smell the fries that came with the turkey club Zach had ordered from room service, and there was a different meeting going on. This actually went on for some time, meeting after meeting, with Zach apparently coherent and focused for all of them. Chris wasn’t sure if Zach always conducted business like this, or if it was because he was in LA so infrequently that he just had a lot to do. He’d never really seen this side of Zach in life, so for all he knew this was his usual MO. He knew with certainty that he could not have borne it, not even when he could care about it all.

But while the business at hand was dull, Chris found comfort just being in Zach's presence, the deep rumble of his voice a balm. Being with him was enough in the moment, the months without him could nearly be forgotten. How like the old times this was, when they were out on the press tour and one of them would be giving a phone interview or something, the other seated nearby, comfortable in their proximity, the promise of time together later enough to remain quiet. 

A familiar voice brought Chris out of the bedroom toward the end of the day. “Zoë?” he said, rising from the bed. He was disappointed, though; Zach was only speaking to her on Facetime. Chris drew closer so he could see her face—he’d missed her more than he realized.

“How you doing, babe, are you eating? You look thin,” she said.

Zach smiled the secret smile he only shared with his intimates. “You’re supposed to be mothering your own children, not me.”

“You know I worry. How are you? How was your flight?”

Zach shrugged. “It was a flight. We arrived fifteen whole minutes early!” he said with mock excitement.

She laughed. “How long you out here this time?”

“Through Sunday. Lots to do for BtD, you know how it is, life of a big time producer, ha-ha.” She grinned at him. “And well, it’s supposed to be all hush-hush, but I just had this talk with a literary agent—you know that book _The Cupboy_?”

“Boy, you talked about nothing else last summer.”

“Well, I think I’m this close to acquiring filming rights. I think I… I want to direct it.”

“What? That’s terrific! Zach, I’m so proud, that’s a big step.”

“I know.” He blew a huge breath through his lips. “ _I know_. It’s gonna be hard, but, I’ve been thinking I ought to branch out, you know? I’m not gonna be this pretty forever.”

“Aw, honey, don’t say that, there’s always theater.” They shared a laugh, then Zoë continued, “Do you know who called me the other day? JJ.”

“No—really? What, there’s a role in the next Star Wars film for you?”

“Do I look like I want in on another franchise? No, it turns out our friends at Paramount thought if he talked to me—“

“Dammit, I told them no!” Zach interrupted, his voice rising. “Did they think if they worked on you I’d cave?”

“Apparently.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him we were all standing strong, that none of us would do another Trek until you were ready.”

“It hasn’t even been a year, Zo,” Zach said, his voice cracking the slightest bit.

“I know, that’s what I said, and JJ was pretty apologetic, but I mean, he’s still the EP on the next one, whatever it winds up being.”

“God, I can’t even believe these people, do they think the fans are really going to care at this point if they make a film on the 50th anniversary? It was going to be hard enough and now that Leonard’s gone too…”

“You’re preaching to the converted, baby.”

Zach ran his hands through his hair and took a deep, cleansing breath. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to yell.”

“That’s just fine, I did enough for both of us with JJ.”

“I just… I can’t even imagine what Chris would say if he was here,” Zach said. 

“I’d say don’t get yourself sued, you have a contract,” Chris told him, settling down on the couch and pulling his knees to his chest. “You big idiots.” 

“He’d probably be all worried about us getting in trouble,” Zoë answered. 

Chris spread his hands. “There you go.”

“Oh my God, remember that time in Berlin, with the luggage carts?” Zach said with a snort.

Zoë laughed fondly at the memory. “I blame you and Karl!” 

“I do too!” Chris grumped. It had been on the _Into Darkness_ press tour, and _someone_ had thought it would be fun to have luggage cart races. Zoë and Alice acted as passengers, with Karl, Zach, Simon and Benedict pushing them along. It would have been fun except they were all supposed to be functioning adults, and Chris was convinced someone would get hurt, so he made them stop when they were tied at one win each.

“Shut up, you know you’d have lost the last race,” Zach chided.

“Please, you three got lucky that time, I had a big, strapping Kiwi on my squad.”

“You’re probably right. Man, Berlin—that was a good time.”

“It was,” Chris agreed. He had such happy memories of that whole European tour.

“You and Chris hooked up that one night, didn’t you?” Zoë asked.

“I mean, maybe? Depends on your definition of ‘hooked up.’ We only kissed.”

“If you make out, it’s still a hookup,” Chris called across the room.

“It counts,” Zoë said.

“See?” Chris said. They had always agreed on such things. 

“Simon owes me money,” Zoë added.

“You were betting on us?”

“We bet on everyone. I’m still disappointed Cho didn’t take Anton home for a threesome that one time. Karl won two fifty off me that night.”

“Neither of them is gay or even bi, I am telling you,” Zach insisted.

Chris could no longer see the phone’s screen from where he was, but he imagined the look on Zoë’s face, rolling her eyes and waving a dismissive hand. The scoff he heard her make only reinforced the image. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Listen, why don’t you come over for dinner? The twins would love to see you, and so would I. I’ll even make tofu if you insist.”

“As much as I want two toddlers to run roughshod over me, I am afraid I must take a pass. I’m meeting Joe,” Zach said.

“Oh, poo. Well, what about Thursday? I’ll bet I can con Mario into watching the kids, and you can take me out to dinner.”

“No can do, I’ve got some studio dinner to go to.”

“Aww! I want to see you! Fine, I’ll have to settle for seeing you over Facetime, even if you’re in the same city as me, I can’t believe your crazy schedule!”

“Sorry, Zo. And speaking of my brother, I need to go if I’m going to meet him in time,” Zach said.

“All right,” she said, and Chris could hear the disappointment in her voice. “Take care of yourself, Quinto. You know I worry about you.”

“There is no need. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

He disconnected the call and rose from the table, walking over toward the couch Chris sat on. Picking up the phone on the end table, he proceeded to order dinner from room service—some sort of tofu crap as Zoë predicted.

“You are a lying liar who lies,” Chris said as he watched him eat it while making notes on yet another script he’d brought along. 

Zach stayed up most of the night working, or so Chris assumed. After a couple of hours, it got to be boring—and he couldn’t exactly open the door to leave without attracting attention—so Chris went back to the bedroom and lay on the bed until he fell asleep.

\----

Zach spent his second day in LA much like the first, taking meetings and scribbling notes in scripts and in a notebook he kept beside him. It was one of those pasteboard-bound ones with the elastic band to keep it closed, and Chris longed to touch the paper so much. It was a rich, cream-colored linen paper that drank in the ink of Zach’s felt tip pen like a man in a desert. Chris missed writing things down and resolved to conjure up a moleskine when he returned to Elysium. 

Zach worked until late in the night once more, blowing off his brother for dinner when he called, leaving Chris wondering once more if he had always been this much of a workaholic before. 

The following day, Zach met Corey and Neal for lunch at a diner in Silver Lake, and Chris was reluctant to tag along. He thought what he was doing could have been the wrong side of creepy, but there was a kind of contentment he found in Zach’s presence he had missed for too long. He knew it was just his loneliness, and that doing this was likely very unhealthy, but he couldn’t help himself.

The restaurant was one they’d gone to often together; Chris remembered they made the best onion rings—they served them impaled on some sort of sword thingy, with a variety of dipping sauces. Chris missed dipping sauces. 

On the way in from the parking lot, Chris noticed a homeless guy shambling around by the dumpsters that sat adjacent to the rear entrance to the diner. He was dressed in what looked like Army-issue fatigues, drab olive green pants and a canvas jacket to match. Chris felt an outpouring of compassion for the man as he walked, wondering what series of circumstances might have brought him to this point. He wished he had some money to give him, he looked like he could use a hot meal, and Chris didn’t like to think of the reason why he was hanging out behind a restaurant’s trash receptacles. He couldn’t take his eyes off him as he walked; dark eyes glittered from within a sunken, cavernous face, leathery skin barely clinging to his bone structure. On second glance, Chris wondered what could be wrong with the man, physically, and he wished he was able to say something to Zach, get him to call social services to get the guy some medical assistance.

“What are you looking at, pretty boy?” the man spat out, and if Chris wasn’t mistaken, he was addressing him.

“Wh-what?” Chris said, taken aback. He stopped walking, staring at the man as he stared back at Chris. A thin hand reached up as the man adjusted his jacket; it was wasted, skeletal, his skin grey as ash. His clothes at closer range were barely rags.

“You’re one o’ the new ones, are ya? Well tell yer story walkin’, kid, I ain’t got the time.” He made a dismissive gesture and turned away. 

Chris glanced at Zach, who’d been texting while he walked, but how could he have missed the guy? When he looked back, the man was gone, and Chris was left blinking in the early afternoon sun, wondering what had just happened. It wasn’t the first time Chris had been seen here—he remembered vividly the way Harold had seen him, if only for those few seconds. But he’d manifested his hand that time, with Harold—what was it about the man that made him able to see him? He stood there, disturbed at the encounter, something not sitting right with him.

He hurried to catch up to Zach, but he was already inside the restaurant; Chris could see him through the large picture windows, greeting his friends with hugs and backslaps, and suddenly felt unwelcome and out of sorts. 

“What are you looking at, pretty boy?” Chris muttered to himself. He could get inside if he waited for someone else to come along—it was the lunch rush so that was a statistical certainty—but the encounter with the homeless man left him feeling strange. As he watched Zach with his friends, Chris felt like he was intruding on something. Shaking his head, he turned and left, and spent that night—and the next—in his garden. 

\----

He told himself he was just checking in on Zach, so that made it OK. 

So when he returned to the cottage on the grounds of the Chateau Marmont, he was surprised to see that Zach had checked out a day early. A maid had left the door ajar while she was inside cleaning it, so he could see that Zach's things were all gone. 

“That's odd,” he said to himself as he wandered out of the room and nearly mowed down another maid, who had come wheeling a linens cart. 

“Ai, clumsy!” she chastised herself as she recovered the thing, looking at the ground for a crack in the pavement that might have caused the upset.

Chris always found these situations where he bumped into the living regrettable, and he felt guilty for it, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He had to get to New York. 

\----

Chris pulled up short in the tiny lobby of Zach's building as an attractive man of perhaps 20 rushed off the elevator. Chris had been heading for the stairs which had been the way he’d gained access to the apartment the last few times he was here—but when the elevator opened, he figured he might as well take advantage. As he passed the younger man, he was surprised to notice he was shirtless and carrying his shoes, as if he'd had to leave whatever unit he'd come from in a hurry. 

He didn't give it much thought as he waited for the doors to close behind him. He remembered the security code he’d seen Miles use, so he manifested just his hand and keyed it in. 

As soon as the elevator opened into the apartment, Chris flinched; someone was shouting. The corporeal plane being what it was, with sounds and colors and lights so highly magnified, the shouting was actually shocking. He stepped off the elevator and nearly ran into Zach, who'd come striding down the hall from the bedroom, in the midst of a rant.

“That had better not be your boy toy coming back!” he said, apparently drawn out by the sound of the elevator’s arrival.

Chris recoiled as he saw the look on Zach's face, like he was capable of doing murder. It was frightening.

“Oh, it's empty,” Zach said, looking into the elevator. “You are so fucking lucky.” 

“Baby—“ Miles said, having followed Zach out of the bedroom. 

“Do. Not. Call me that.” Zach’s voice was pitched low, and it shook with emotion. “I am not your baby. Not anymore. I can't believe I come home to find you _fucking_ ,” he whispered the word, as if it hurt him, “in _our bed_.”

“You were supposed to come back on Sunday!” Miles wailed, clearly upset. He wore only boxer briefs and his face was tear stained and splotchy. 

“So what, that makes it ok?”

“No, I just. I would never hurt you like this.”

“How _would_ you hurt me then?”

“You know what I mean.” 

Zach crossed his arms. “I really don't, Miles. Please explain.”

“It wasn't supposed to happen but Drew was over, and there was wine, and… we just lost track…”

“ _Lost track_?! It’s not like you forgot to meet your mom for dinner or whatever, _you had his dick in your ass_!” 

“I know, I was there!” Miles said petulantly.

Zach stared at him for a moment, mouth hanging open. “I can't even look at you. Go and put some clothes on.”

Miles turned and walked back to the bedroom without saying a word, leaving Zach alone in the hall. He watched him go then strode suddenly into the kitchen. Chris followed as he walked through the well-appointed room and into the powder room beyond, where he dropped to his knees and threw up whatever had been in his stomach. 

“Fuck,” Zach whispered when the dry heaving was over, resting his cheek on his outstretched arm. “Just… _fuck_.” He rose and rinsed his mouth out with handfuls of water from the sink, ran his wet hands through his hair, and left. 

Chris pressed his back against the wall as Zach passed—he didn't want to trip him. When he turned around, Miles stood at the kitchen island sipping from a bottle of water. 

“What happens now?” he asked, and Chris was amazed to realize he clearly did not know. 

“What happens now is you pack your shit and get the hell out of my house.”

“Our house.”

“You goddamn well know who pays for this place, Miles.” 

Miles began to chew a thumbnail. “I'll have to call my mom and find out if she's home. I don’t really have a key anymore, so hopefully the housekeeper will be there...”

“I don't care about your thought process, man, just get out.”

Miles looked hurt for a moment and then his eyes narrowed. “Don’t act like you didn't want this. Somewhere deep down inside?”

“What?” Zach asked, enraged again.

Miles held his hands up, conciliatory. “Maybe not, my bad.”

“I _wanted_ …? I wanted you to bone some random shit bag in my bed? Are you fucking insane?”

“OK fine, I wanted to be fucked by someone then, all right?” Miles railed. “And can you blame me? You haven’t touched me in months, Zach.”

“What are you talking about? We just… when we went to…” Zach stopped talking, clearly flummoxed.

“It has been more than six months, Zach. You’re so cold and distant when I try anything, I feel like I’m living with a zombie.” Zach glared at him, defiant. “But that’s kind of fitting though, isn’t it? Since you’d rather be with a dead man anyway.”

“Wait, what?” Chris said, stepping forward to look at Miles. 

“You know, I always knew I’d have to compete with Chris Pine no matter what, and I figured with him gone, I’d finally have your attention. But I don’t,” Miles went on. Zach gaped at him. “You think I don’t see how you’re constantly staring at photos of him on your phone? How you talk about him like he’s a fucking saint? What about me? What do you say to people about me?”

“I don’t talk about you.”

Sorrow settled on Miles’ face. “Exactly. So can you blame me now for looking elsewhere? Can you? You were in love with your best friend and he died, and I’m sorry, but what am I supposed to do—just be OK with it? I know you’re in pain, but you’re supposed to let me help you.”

Zach reached out to him. “Miles—“

He stepped back so he’d be out of Zach’s range. “Maybe this was always gonna happen, and maybe I wanted it to. I’m sorry about the way it’s gone down, Zach, but not that it did. I’ve never felt as lonely as I have the last six months of this relationship.” 

“Jesus,” Chris murmured.

“Goodbye, Zach.” 

Zach stood at the kitchen island after the elevator door closed behind Miles, both hands gripping the polished marble so tightly the skin on every joint turned white. Chris had turned to face him, so he had a full view of the side of his face as it crumbled. 

Zach made a strangled noise before sinking to the floor.

“Zach!” Chris said, kneeling down beside him. He reached for him but couldn't touch. Frustrated, he pulled his hands away and shoved them between his thighs, impotent tears rising to his own eyes. “Oh Zach,” Chris said, but that was all he could do as his friend wept, legs splayed out in front of him like a discarded doll. At one point, the dogs came to investigate, and Zach lay down, gathering Skunk to him and hugging the small body to himself. 

Eventually, Zach cried himself out, and Chris stayed beside him, unable to offer any comfort. They stayed like that for hours, until the shadows coming in from the front room lengthened and the baser needs of the dogs had to be seen to. Chris escorted them outside as Zach took the dogs on a walk, then inside to feed them and Harold. When they'd been seen to, Zach went to his bedroom, where he stripped the sheets off the bed and remade it, then lay down on top of the duvet. 

Chris lay beside him, arranging himself on the edge of it so he wouldn't risk getting in the way. 

Zach's phone chimed as a text message came in. Fishing the device from his pocket, he swiped the notification away and proceeded to stare at the face of the thing. Chris knew the lock screen was a picture of himself, a fact he'd found flattering once upon a time, but now Zach stared at it with despair and grief. 

“So it turns out I'm in love with you,” he said at last, his voice scratchy and subdued. He huffed a dry and mirthless chuckle before caressing the image gently with a fingertip. “Guess I should have told you when I had the chance, huh? I never should have let you go. I had you, all it would have taken was a word, and I was a fucking coward.” He began to cry again, softly. “God, what a waste,” he murmured, rolling onto his back and pressing his forefinger and thumb into his eyes. 

Chris reached for him again, letting his hand come to a rest atop the duvet an inch from Zach's other arm. “I'm so sorry I never told you,” he whispered. “I was a coward too, and I'll never forgive myself.”

They lay that way for a long time, until Zach, exhausted by travel and grief, let the phone fall from his fingers as he began to drift into sleep. His eyelids drooped as he fought it. 

“That's it, sleep. You'll feel better tomorrow,” Chris murmured gently. 

“I will,” Zach breathed, his head turning. “I'll feel better tomorrow, Chris.” 

For a second, less even, Zach's sleepy eyes found his, and Chris knew he saw him. And then he was asleep. 

Wide-eyed, Chris pushed himself up on an elbow. “Zach?” But Zach was fast asleep and Chris could not wake him. 

He felt the bed move and he moved out of the way as the dogs wormed their way beside their master. Skunk sat himself beside Zach's head, blinking serenely in Chris's direction. It didn't seem as if the little guy could see him, but the message was clear: the dogs were there to watch over their papa.

Chris knew he could stay—a large part of him wanted to—but he was more than a little freaked out that Zach had apparently just been able to see and hear him. He left via the stairs—without a key he couldn't call the elevator. Opening and closing doors was something he found easy to do. He barely had to manifest to do it anymore. As he was turning the corner on the second floor, though, there was a quick movement from the shadows at his right and he found himself thrown up against the wall. 

“Ow! Hey!”

“Have you seen her? Did you?”

The person—he thought it was a woman—spoke in a high, reedy voice that was almost too breathy to be heard. She weighed next to nothing as she moved up against him, crowding him against the wall. But her grip was strong on him. He looked down at her hands; they were grey and desiccated, the skin stretched taut over protuberant joints; it reminded him of the mummies he'd seen once at the British Museum. Her face was a horror when he looked up: wasted and diminished, with paper thin skin stretched across a crumbling bone structure. Her breath was fetid, like decaying things long dead, and her eyes… Chris had seen eyes like that before—just the other day with the homeless guy outside the diner. She grabbed him by the throat, cutting off whatever protests he might have managed. 

“Did you see?” she repeated, and when she spoke this time, he could see how the skin in her cheeks billowed out, the sinew unconnected in places, reminding him unpleasantly of torn curtains. 

“Get the fuck off me!” Chris yelled, a burst of adrenaline spurring him to action as he easily pushed her off. Her clothes were heavy on her scant frame, and she cackled as she rolled on the floor in a heap. Chris retched and backed away, running down the steps. 

“You'll see, you will,” she said, and kept laughing hysterically at him until he finally took the remaining steps at a run. 

Chris was all the way to Elvis’s house before he realized she shouldn't have been able to touch him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: This is [the picture of Chris](https://41.media.tumblr.com/f47138dbd7044d5d11e67130a7babaec/tumblr_nhq57qcWgw1sqdmfko1_500.png) that Zach keeps staring at on his phone


	9. Chapter 9

“Wait a second, what happened?” Elvis was picking out the melody to something Chris thought he recognized as a Modest Mouse song as he told his friend about the encounter with Zach.

“He saw me. I would swear it!” Chris chewed at the skin of his thumbnail, distracted by trying to recall every detail.

Elvis strummed the guitar's strings then stopped their vibrations with his fingertips. “No, the other part.”

“The homeless woman in the stairwell? It was just weird, you know?”

“Because she saw you.”

“I mean that’s a secure building, how’s a homeless person even _get in_?”

Elvis stared at him for a good, long minute before Chris realized how stupid he was being. “Oh my God, _she saw me_!!”

“Now we’re getting it.”

“And she touched me—Elvis, what could it mean?”

“You haven’t guessed yet? She was a ghost. Haven’t you seen one yet?”

“I did, but I thought he was just, like, psychic or a medium or whatever.”

“Naw, man, they’re everywhere, especially in big cities with lots of history, like New York. You gotta look out for ‘em, they’ll try and hurt ya if you’re not careful.”

Chris rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I can’t believe it, I never even considered… I mean, Virgil said they were diminished, but I never pictured _that_ kind of diminished. She was terrifying.”

“What did you picture?”

“I don’t know, like,” he gestured vaguely at his own face, “see-through or something?”

“What, like Casper the Friendly Ghost?”

“Yes?”

Elvis shook his head, laughing at him. “You are one of a kind, Pine.”

“Shut up, I was distracted. Did I tell you Zach said he loved me? I could have cried. Zach cried.”

Elvis shook his head, clearly disappointed. He stood, rested the guitar on the couch, and walked over to Chris. “Naw, see, that's why I told you you should stay away.” He threw a friendly—and surprisingly powerful—arm across Chris’s shoulders and strolled with him slowly around the vast open plan room that made up the first floor of his house. “It’ll tear you up inside.”

“It's a little late for that. And we’re grieving together, kind of. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“I’m no shrink, but I’m gonna go with no.”

Chris stopped walking. “You don’t understand how much better it is when I’m there with him, though.” He clutched at his shirt over his heart. “It makes some of the gnawing feeling stop, it really does.”

“Time will also make it stop, Chris. Nothing good can come of this, trust me. You don’t want to wind up like the crazy lady on the stairs, do you?”

He had a point, but Chris didn't want to see it. “Are you going to stand there and lecture me, or are you going to help me figure out why _Zach_ could see and hear me?”

“That is weird. You’re saying he responded to something you said?”

Chris nodded. “And he looked right at me. For just a split second, our eyes locked—I could tell he saw me.”

“Then what happened?”

“He fell asleep.”

“Guess your conversation wasn’t all that stimulatin’ then, was it, lover-boy?”

“Shut up, I’m being serious.”

“Tell me exactly how it went down.”

“We were lying down in his bed, and he was crying, like I told you. We lay there for a long time, and I noticed he was falling asleep, so I told him everything would be better in the morning. And _he agreed_. He looked at me and said, ‘I will, Chris, I will feel better tomorrow’!”

“And then he fell asleep?”

Chris nodded. “Do you think he could sense I was there? Could he have known I was there, like, because we’re cosmically connected?”

“ _To die, to sleep, no more. And by a sleep to say we end the heartache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to_.”

“Are _you_ quoting Shakespeare to me now?”

“What, I made all A’s in high school English. But think about the words. _To sleep perchance to dream_?”

“I know the whole speech, Elvis,” Chris said impatiently.

“Yeah? When was the last time you thought about it with a bit more of your own context, then? _To sleep perchance to dream_ —what if sleep is a liminal space? Or rather, the moment between sleeping and consciousness is?”

Chris was incredulous. “Are you saying Zach could see past the veil?”

“It seems logical to me. Just like folks that claim to be able to talk to those who’ve passed? I mean, knowing what we know, it kinda makes sense.”

Chris chewed at his thumbnail. Elvis was giving him some reasonable explanations for what he'd seen, but he wanted to think it through some more. Then a sudden wave of dizziness overcame him, and he fell to his hands and knees on the shearling rug, retching as his entire torso spasmed.

“Buddy, you ok?” Elvis asked, alarmed. He got down beside him and took his arm.

Chris reached for him but another wave of what he could only call pain wracked his frame and he retched again, but of course nothing came out. It was another agonizing minute before whatever it was subsided enough that he could move. He looked up at Elvis with eyes streaming with tears. “What the hell is this?”

Elvis helped him back onto the couch, where Chris sat doubled over, cradling his aching stomach.

“That, my friend, was reintegration, though I've never seen anyone have such a violent reaction.”

“Reintegration?”

“It's the feeling you get when someone in your cohort arrives. Judging by the intensity of it, someone very close to you just died.”

Chris rose, despite still feeling like shit, and stepped toward the door. “I have to find out who, I have to go to them.”

“You know you're not supposed to.”

“Yeah, but they're gonna wake up all alone and not know what the hell to do. I can't make them go through the same hell I have, the confusion, feeling lost all the time?”

“Everyone's supposed to find their way,” Elvis said.

“You sound like Virgil,” Chris spat. “Now tell me how to find out who it is.”

Elvis raised his eyebrows. “Mind yer tone, mister.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “OK fine. Please, oh King of Rock and Roll, will you help me find whoever it is who's died.”

“You're a sarcastic little shit, you know that?”

“I didn't used to be.”

Elvis rolled his eyes, but his face softened and he looked at Chris kindly. “Fine. The power to do it lies in the feeling, but you have to act now before it fades. Let it pull you to them, easy as pie.”

“That's all?”

Elvis nodded.

“Thanks,” he said, grasping his friend’s hands and projecting as much gratitude as he could. “So much.”

“Whatever. Get outta here, you've maybe got half an hour.”

Chris left hurriedly, resisting every urge he had to lie down and writhe quietly on the ground, and let the feeling draw him along. It was an odd sensation, sort of like something unspooling inside him—or maybe it was just regular spooling. Respooling. Whatever, it didn't take long.

“Oh,” he said as soon as he stopped in front of a very familiar house. “No.”

It was the house he grew up in, a stately old craftsman built on a wooded lot, set back from the road.

Seeing it, He didn't want to go in, afraid of what—or more accurately _who_ —he'd find inside. At the same time, the tugging in his guts wouldn't quit, though the sensations had changed somehow, had gone from pain to something like a gnawing hunger. He walked forward with a sense of inevitability, of something too important for his fears to get in the way of.

The front door was unlocked—of course it was, it always was—and Chris walked through, down the hall with its floor made of wood recovered from an old Spanish mission, to the room at the end, on the left. There, the feeling in his guts changed into something warmer and more comfortable. Chris rested his hands on either side of the doorway, bracing himself before leaning inside.

Bob Pine sat at his desk, a massive walnut and mahogany thing that had been built in-place by the house's original owner, his usual bemused expression on his face. Added to that was a touch of mild perplexity, Chris expected, to have found himself dead yet sitting in his own study. He looked as Chris most often thought of him: mid-40s, broad shouldered and lean, with patches of white hair at his temples, and the trademark Pine laugh lines etched into his face.

“Dad?” Chris said, his voice barely a whisper.

The crinkles diminished when he saw Chris, as Bob’s expression transformed into astonishment. “Son?” he said, rising. “Is it… is it really…?” He moved out from behind the desk, stumbling as his hip checked the corner of it, but it didn't slow him.

“Oh my God, Dad!” Chris cried as they hugged, burying his face in his father's neck; he wore the cologne he used to as a younger man—Aramis? He'd abandoned such things as he got older, but it was a scent Chris would always associate with him. Chris held tight, his father’s hand on the back of his head providing a sort of anchor, and they rocked back and forth on their feet.

“I can’t believe it’s you!” Bob said at last, holding Chris at arm’s length and peering at him closely. He had tear stains down his face, but he was beaming. He cupped the side of Chris's face with his hand, thumb caressing the skin gently. “It is you, isn’t it?”

“Yes!”

“Oh, Christopher, I never thought I’d live to see the day.” He laughed, a little crazily. “But I suppose I didn't, did I?”

Chris laughed too. “I suppose not.” Bob pulled him in close with one arm around his neck and they went over to the ratty leather couch Chris's Mom had finally gotten rid of back in ‘97. They sat close, their bodies touching, and Bob held onto Chris's hand like he used to when he was a boy, running a lazy finger along the back of it. Now, as then, it was instantly soothing.

“Dad, what happened?”

“What, to me?” He shrugged dismissively. “Lymphoma or some-such. Common in old codgers like me, it turns out. Worked pretty fast, too. No one was more shocked than me.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Well, you know,” he paused for a long moment and their eyes met; Bob raised Chris’s hand and kissed it. “Not the worst thing to happen to me.”

Chris looked away. “I’m sorry about that too.” They chatted for a few minutes longer, Chris grilling his dad for updates on the family. After a while, Chris glanced out the window and saw a familiar bald head gleaming. He stood up reluctantly.

“So listen, they'll probably be here to kick me out in a few minutes. They have their own way of welcoming recent arrivals, it's all very bureaucratic and boring. But I just had to see you.”

“You won't get into trouble will you?”

“I'll probably just get yelled at. I mean, what can they do, kill me?”

Bob stood as well. “Oh, ha-ha, gallows humor. I think I'm going to like this place.”

Chris suddenly felt like he’d cry all over again. He pulled his father in close. “I won't necessarily get to come see you any time soon, but I'll try, all right? They'll keep you plenty busy anyway, there's a whole orientation program. You'll make new friends!”

“Oh, have you?”

“Just like summer camp.”

Bob smiled indulgently at the family joke and squeezed Chris’s shoulder encouragingly. Chris had notoriously hated it the one time his parents had sent him away to the mountains for camp, and that phrase had since become code for anything that was not as good as advertised. “Has it been tough? Are you all right?”

Chris ducked his head. “I’m good. I got to meet Elvis.”

“I’m sure everyone says that—it’s heaven, right?”

“He’s more of a misanthrope than you’d think.”

Bob looked thoughtful at that, and Chris took the opportunity to leave. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Bye.”

Outside, Chris found Virgil seated in the glider in his parents’ back yard, calmly watching as a light breeze lifted the branches of nearby trees. He was dressed in his usual somber grey, Teva sandals making _skitch-skitch_ sounds as his feet skimmed the ground. Virgil indicated the seat next to him, and Chris took it, though he was in no mood for relaxing chats in the yard; he sat forward, feet firmly planted, which stopped the gentle swooshing of the glider.

“You checking up on me?” Chris accused.

“Should I be?”

Chris could feel his face heat. “I’m not supposed to be here. You lot from the D.E.A.D. don’t like that very much.”

“Technically, we don’t. I, however, did not think you would be capable of staying away, not once you felt the pull.”

“What do you mean, ‘not capable’?”

“I think you know what I mean, Christopher. You have made a habit of ignoring the rules most stubbornly during your short time here.”

“That’s because… it’s because…” Chris’s voice trailed off, because the reasons for his discontent were, in the long run, not at all important in the grand scheme. Knowing what he knew—the truth of the universe and his place in it—had been far from the mind-altering revelation he suspected it was supposed to be. On the contrary, it left him feeling helpless and even more insignificant, and more than a little depressed.

“Your reasons remain your own,” Virgil said with his usual degree of frustrating equanimity. “I cannot change them, nor would I want to. But I also cannot leave you alone to find your way, and while I know you have found a group of souls who undoubtedly have noble motives, I suspect they may have left you misinformed.”

“Elvis is teaching me what I need to know,” Chris sullenly defended.

“But rashly and without the proper context. I wish you had not fallen in with him, Christopher, I fear his malcontent has been an influence. He will keep you from your own Enlightenment.”

“My situation will keep me from Enlightenment—your rules keep me from Enlightenment! Have you ever thought about what it’s like for someone like me? There is literally no one here I know that I can talk to—and the ones I do are strange, and different.”

“I think you know why that is.”

“Because they’re Enlightened. They’re at another level from me, so do you blame me for making friends with people like me, like Elvis?”

“He will lead you astray! He will lead you to ruin. You know he crosses over to the corporeal plane regularly, will he entice you to do the same?”

Chris’s voice was low when he spoke, as he tried to control his emotions. “Can’t you guess?”

Virgil looked sorrowful. “You will not be the first… failure for me,” he said, his voice tragic. “Many souls who come here find it difficult to find their footing, Christopher—you are not alone. I cannot stop you—that is where the free will comes into the equation, you see? My only advice is that you do not make a habit of it, not before you and I have a chance to discuss it. I am not a foolish man, I know how tempting it is, I know how much you grieve your life. I can only hope you take my advice. Will you consider it?”

Chris nodded, childishly telling himself he was not lying if he’d consider Virgil’s advice and rejected it.

Virgil’s face was inscrutable. “Now then, I must be going. I have a new client inside.”

Chris was surprised. “You’re the counselor for my dad too?”

“It is not unusual for us to be assigned members of the same cohort—it makes helping them to assimilate a bit easier.”

Chris wondered where that consideration was for him when he arrived, but didn't mention it.

\----

If anything, Virgil's advice to stay away only spurred Chris on, and he was back at Zach's the next day. Mostly, he was determined to test Elvis's theory of sleep as a liminal space.

He waited on the street until Zach took the dogs for their last walk of the day and rode the elevator up with them. Zach let the dogs off their leashes as soon as the elevator opened and followed them through to the kitchen to get them a treat. Chris went in the other direction, to the living room. Zach soon came in with a mug of tea that he placed on the coffee table, then he picked up the old sweater of Chris’s he had draped over the back of the couch and put it on before turning on the TV.

Chris sat in one of the chairs and watched him channel surf. “Ooo, _Mythbusters_!” he said when the channel scrolled by, but Zach kept going. When he found nothing to watch, he switched to Netflix and scrolled through his queue.

“No man, anything but that!” Chris said, but it was too late: Zach was determined to watch _Just My Luck_ , apparently not for the first time recently, as it was among the first choices in his queue.

“What is that haircut, Pine?” Zach said as Chris's character appeared for the first time.

“You're asking me?” Chris replied from behind the hand he held over his own eyes. “I think they used nail clippers.”

By the end of the movie, Chris was watching Zach more than the screen. He looked sleepy, which gave Chris a thrill of anticipation. After a while he got off the couch and went to the bookcase, coming back with a DVD he popped into the player.

“Jesus, Zach, what are you doing to yourself?” Chris said as the opening credits to _Stretch_ flashed onscreen. Zach paused it to fetch himself a drink—a healthy pour of Grey Goose on the rocks—then returned to watch. He sat tucked into the corner of the couch with his legs drawn up, the cardigan pulled tight around his torso like a swaddling blanket.

Chris split his attention between the film and Zach, whose position only changed when he got up to get himself a second—then a third—drink. When the film was over, he broke out the copy of _Princess Diaries 2_ he once made Chris autograph as a joke and watched that too.

“When is this film festival of sad going to be over?” Chris muttered as Annie Hathaway fake-stomped on his foot. By the time the corny balcony scene toward the end played, Zach was laughing aloud at Anne dangling from the side of a building, clearly more than a little drunk.

By the time the scene where Chris was riding on a ridiculous antique bicycle to break up a royal wedding played, Zach's laughter had devolved into a full-on giggle fit. Before long, he was lying on his side on the couch, laughing hysterically.

“Jesus, you're easily amused when you're drunk,” Chris said, not a little annoyed. It was clear Zach was laughing at him, not the situation, and he couldn't help but feel like he was being mocked. Justifiably, but still. “Asshole,” he grumbled as Zach laughed himself out.

By the end of the film, Zach was staring at the screen, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed. “Maybe it's time for bed, buddy,” Chris suggested.

“Yeah, you're prolly right,” Zach slurred, then shook himself as he sat up. He looked around the room, startled.

Chris sat forward in his seat, suddenly alert. This time he had no doubts about it. “You heard me just now, didn't you?” But now that he was up and fully awake, Zach could neither see nor hear him. "Shit, Elvis was right."

Chris followed Zach into his bedroom, but he'd already face-planted onto his bed and was fast asleep.

\----

Chris returned the following night to find Zach following a similar routine, drinking heavily as he channel surfed. Thankfully the Chris Pine Film Festival was on temporary hiatus. When his cell phone rang, he ignored it. It rang fifteen minutes later and again he didn't answer, though at least he checked the display to see who it was.

“Stop mothering me, Joseph,” he muttered as he tossed it onto the couch and went back to watching TV. A minute later, the phone chimed, indicating a voicemail had been left. After another five minutes, curiosity got the better of him and he picked it up, playing the message on speaker.

“Zachary, it's your brother,” Joe said, his tone grim. “Don't think I don't know when you're avoiding me, you little shit, but this is important. Call me back. It's about Chris's dad.”

“Oh shit,” Chris said as Zach stiffened.

Zach hit redial immediately. “Joe. What? What is it?”

Chris couldn't hear the other side of the conversation, but he could guess what Joe said.

“No,” Zach said in a small voice. “When?” He laid his head on the back of the couch as Joe spoke. “How? …No, I had no idea he was sick. When's the funeral?” He nodded. “Did you talk to Katie?” Another, longer pause; the Pine and Quinto families had become very friendly ever since Chris and Zach were first cast in Trek. “OK. …OK.” His voice was low-pitched, gravelly. He sniffed as a tear flowed down the side of his face to disappear into his hair. “I’m OK, Joe!” he insisted, sounding anything but. “I guess I have to go book a flight now. Yeah, I’ll email you the details. Bye.”

He hung up and stayed in the same position, a hand covering his eyes, for a long time.

\----

Chris attended his father’s graveside service from a distance. He thought his dad would have appreciated how many of his old friends and co-stars came—even Erik Estrada showed up. A lot of Chris’s friends were there, too, including John Cho and his wife; Zoë and Mario; JJ and his wife. Zach arrived later than most people—probably because of his flight—just in time. Chris watched as he mingled with everyone, doling out hugs to Zoë and Kerri, distracting Luca from the proceedings with a new toy. He stood with Chris’s mom for several minutes, crouched down in front of the folding chair that had been provided, holding her hand and talking to her. At the end of their conversation, she reached out and caressed his cheek fondly. She had always joked he was like her third child, and Chris hoped they’d stay close now that he was gone.

He walked away during the service—watching it happen when he knew his dad was safely off in Elysium, probably giving Virgil a run for his money, was oddly surreal. He returned more than an hour later to find that the service was over, the casket already laid into the ground, and there were workmen around it, removing the Astroturf that had been laid over the dirt before they were to fill it in. Chris didn't know if he could watch that either, but then he spotted a familiar, tall figure close by, standing beside another plot.

It didn't take a genius to figure out whose gravestone Zach was standing beside, but the sight was still heartbreaking. He stood there another moment before caressing the granite marker and walking away.

Chris had not been to the family plot since his grandmother had died when he was 22, and he had had no urge to visit since, but something drew him closer and he couldn’t resist having a peek.

 

 

Christopher Whitelaw Pine  
August 26, 1980—December 5, 2014  
Beloved Son, Devoted Brother, Cherished Friend

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, digging the toe of his sneaker into the grass that had grown over his grave. His stomach hurt, this was beyond weird and upsetting. “Why did I come here?”

\----

“Why did you go there?” Elvis looked like he might tear actual hair from his own head. “What could have possibly possessed you?”

“I don’t know!”

Elvis planted his hands on his hips and glared; he was less than intimidating in a 1950s-era swimsuit than he seemed to think. Chris had found him floating in a lounge chair in his pool when he arrived, so he was still wet. “You don’t know?”

“OK fine, I wanted to see Zach.”

“Why? Why would you do that? Why? Why? Why?”

“He was really upset about my father, I mean, he was crying. I had to be sure he’d be OK.”

“Allow me to state this in words of two syllables or less, ones I know you with your fancy English degree will understand: Whether or not he is OK is no longer your concern.”

“But he—“

Elvis made a cutting motion with his hands. “But nothin’ Chris! I have told you time and again it’s a bad idea, and you still go back there. I think I’m through warning you, I think the time has come for the tough love.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means if you won’t listen to reason, if you can’t act like a reasoned and logical human being, then I think I’m done talking with you about this, it’s bad for my chi.”

“Chi? Are you fucking kidding me?” Chris scoffed. “We can’t all be as strong as you, Elvis. Look, I know you’re so badass you didn't even accept your own Enlightenment, but it’s a lot harder for some of us.”

“Didn't accept?” Elvis was shocked. “Who told you that?”

“Virgil. He called you a malcontent, said you were a bad influence.”

“I told you that myself, it didn't stop you coming back here.”

“If I’d known you were such a chicken shit, maybe I wouldn’t have.”

“Hey, watch your mouth around here, boy. I’m the chicken shit that taught you anything useful, when all you was doin’ was mopin’ and cryin’ for your lost boyfriend. Well boo-fucking-hoo for you, all of us have lost people, you’re not all that special, Chris.”

“Trust me, if there’s anything being in this literally god-forsaken place has taught me, it’s exactly that.” Chris turned and headed for the door, anger fueling his strides. Elvis caught up to him as he opened the door.

“Chris! Don’t you see if you go back there, you’ll turn into one o’ them ghosts? You’ll never be able to leave. You’ll never be Enlightened.”

Chris scoffed. “We’ll be the same then, won’t we? The only difference is I’ll be able to spend some time with the man I love. And all you’ll have is a cheesy Vegas lounge act no one wants to see.” He turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

“Chris!” Elvis called after him. “Don’t you see I’m only trying to help you?”

“Don’t you see I don’t want it?” Chris said under his breath as he walked away.

\----

Chris returned to New York in time for Zach’s return, and rode the elevator to the fourth floor with him and the dogs. He watched fondly as he let the dogs loose in the apartment, freed from their two-day visit to doggy day care. It was early—he’d taken the redeye—and he made himself a pot of coffee as he listened to his messages on speaker.

“Hey, Quints, it’s Moosa—I need your notes on the _House Beautiful_ script as soon as you can get them to me? I have a meeting with the screenwriter on Monday, so I really need to understand your thoughts before I do that. Oh, and did you talk to Carol about the scheduling of _Abandoned_ , I think they have some questions about locations. And, I dunno, Marcie wants to talk to you about the brand… or something? I’m not exactly sure. Listen, just call me back, OK? It’s really important. ‘Bye.”

He deleted it and the next played: “Zach, it’s Andrew Levy. Again. Call me about the contract for _The Cupboy_ , I need to talk with you about the terms.”

That one was deleted too, and the next three, all of them business partners or employees waiting for something from him. Zach sighed and strolled through to the living room, where he switched on the television, leaving his phone abandoned on the kitchen island. Chris watched as he channel-surfed through endless morning talk shows. When he fell asleep, Zach’s eyes tracked Chris for the briefest moment, giving Chris a thrill.

Later that night, Chris sat on the side of the bed as Zach fell asleep. His arm was outstretched, and Chris pretended Zach was reaching for him.

He stayed the night—he had no reason to be anywhere else—and used the time to manifest hands to sort out some of the clutter that had accumulated in the apartment. Zach had never been a slob before, but had seemed to let things go lately. Chris didn't blame him—he and Miles _had_ just broken up, that was normal, wasn’t it? But he needed something to do, so he made sure Zach’s pets were asleep around their master before going for it, ignoring the discomfort because he knew he was doing something good.

The next night, as he watched, Zach’s eyes fluttered, and Chris feared he hadn’t seen him. But a whispered “Chris,” as his eyes closed was all he needed to sustain him through the night.

During the day, Chris stayed in the background, not wanting to get in the way. Zach spent his days mostly going out to the movies or to the library to read. Chris was happy to accompany him—he was beginning to get bored hanging around the house, and Zach mostly chose books and films Chris liked. At night, he stayed with Zach until he fell asleep, usually seated on the edge of the bed like a parent fretting over a sick child. It made Chris feel good to watch over him like this, he imagined he was keeping him safe. It made him feel useful when he did whatever he could to keep the apartment tidy. They were like a team.

He liked the routine of it all, too. By the following week, Chris felt like he’d seen Zach fall asleep enough times to recognize the signs, and made sure to be in his line of sight, no matter where he was. He began to live for those moments of recognition he saw. He was sure Zach had to find his presence alarming, but if he did he never showed it. He actually seemed relieved.

A week after that, he was compelled to say something.

“You do see me?” he whispered; he was kneeling on the floor, chin in his hands, elbows resting on the edge of the bed.

Zach’s face relaxed as he answered, “Yes,” and then he was asleep.

Chris managed to eke out a very slow conversation over the next several weeks.

“It’s really me, you know.”

“No.”

“It is, Zach.”

“In my…”

“In your what?”

“You’re in my head.”

“I’m not. I’m here with you.”

“It’s OK.”

“What’s OK?”

“If you’re a dream.”

“I’m not a dream.”

Zach just smiled at that.

The next night, Chris had to insist, “I’m not a dream.”

“Why not?”

Semi-conscious people, it turned out, weren’t much for deep conversations, but Chris found himself living for these moments of recognition each night anyway.

The only thing he didn't say was, “I love you.”

\----

They had their bad nights. Nights when Zach couldn’t fall asleep at all, restless nights when even three drinks weren’t enough to help and Zach tossed and turned until he gave up. These nights always ended up with him watching Chris’s movies, eyes bright with tears that never fell. Chris longed to comfort him, but knew he couldn’t. The one time he’d tried to touch Zach, his reaction had been so violent it had scared Chris.

As the summer faded into autumn, these nights became more frequent.

One evening, after three consecutive nights of little to no sleep, Chris heard a loud clatter come from the bathroom. When he and the dogs went to investigate, they found Zach on the floor rooting through the contents of a small mesh basket—the kinds used for storage in the cabinet—looking for something amid its contents.

“There we are!” Zach crowed in triumph as he held a prescription bottle aloft. “I’m sure he didn't mean to leave _you_ behind, eh?”

He opened the bottle and shook all the pills out onto his palm; Chris judged there to be about two dozen small, white pills. Zach shoved all but one back inside the bottle and dry-swallowed it. “God I hope this works, I’m goin’ crazy over here.” He glanced around the bathroom. “This place is filthy.”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t get the cap off the toilet cleaner,” Chris said defensively. He caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror—he was looking a little haggard himself.

Zach got up and left—not picking up his mess, Chris noted with annoyance. Chris found him in his bed, lying on his back with arms outstretched, as if beckoning for sleep to come. After ten minutes, he sat up with a frustrated sigh. “This shit is not working. Leave it to Miles to score sleeping pills as useless as he is.”

“That’s really unkind,” Chris said.

“You’re right, he had many winning qualities. And a pretty sweet ass.” Zach giggled and moved to the edge of the bed. “Sweet ass.” He reached for the drawer of the nightstand and over compensated, only just preventing himself from falling on the floor. “Whoa. Trippy.”

“Wait a minute, can you hear me? Are we having a conversation right now?”

“Of course we are having a conversation right now, Dream-Chris, God!” Zach shook his head and smiled loopily as he finally got the drawer open and reached inside for a bottle of lube. “There we go, yeah.” He rolled back onto the bed the wrong way around, with his feet resting on the pillows. He fumbled the baggy gym shorts he’d taken to wearing lately down his hips, pulled his dick out, and squirted way too much lube into the palm of his hand. “Haven’t much felt like doing this lately,” he muttered as he tugged at himself clumsily.

Chris looked down on him from where he was standing at the foot of the bed. His heart hammered in his chest—was this really happening? “You can see and hear me.”

Zach rolled his eyes. “You know, as psychotic delusions go, you’re kind of dumb, Pine. Of course I can see and hear you—you’re there every night.”

“I am not a delusion.”

“Whatever, OK. Now don’t distract me, I’m in the middle of something here.”

“Are you really sure jerking off is the right thing to do after taking a sleeping pill, Zachary? Zach? Hey! Oh, Jesus fucking Christ,” Chris muttered as he realized Zach had fallen asleep with his dick in his hand.

\----

Zach slept until noon the following morning and appeared to wake up refreshed, even if he did have a crick in his neck and an unpleasantly thick coating of dried lube on his junk. He showed no sign he remembered anything from the night before, and Chris tried not to hope he did.

Zach’s phone rang several times during the day and he ignored it as usual. Chris thought nothing of this change in behavior—from workaholic Zach to semi-degenerate in three easy lessons—and was content to sit nearby and watch whatever Zach watched, chilling out in the apartment when he went out, cleaning up whatever needed it.

“How is it that I can see you?” Zach asked him that night. It was very late, and all attempts at falling asleep had once more eluded him. He had taken a pill and gone to bed, the covers pulled up over his head. Only his eyes were visible. He blinked slowly up at Chris as the drug took effect.

“It’s too complicated to explain, but I _am_ here. Do you believe that?”

“I believe my brain wants me to. Can I touch you too?”

“I don’t advise it.”

“That’s inconvenient.”

“Yeah.”

\----

“Zachary.”

“Joseph.” Zach perched himself on the couch with a bowl of chocolate ice cream and set his cell phone on the cushion beside him.

“I just can’t believe I actually got you, I mean I’ve had a more meaningful relationship with your voice mail the last few months.”

Zach rolled his eyes and grabbed for the whipped cream can. “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy with the movie?”

“Uh… yeah, it’s so. Busy.” He shoveled a large spoon of mostly whipped cream into his mouth.

“Yeah, Corey said they had to let several of the locations go because of production delays.”

“So you’re a Hollywood insider now? Priorities shift all the time, Joe.”

Joe sighed. “I suppose they do. Am I going to see you at Mom’s next week?”

Zach looked momentarily confused. “Oh. Thanksgiving.”

“Yes. Thanksgiving—it happens each year around this time. You have a family who likes to see and hear from you from time to time.”

“Is that what that’s for? I had thought it was for guilt and nagging.”

“No, that’s just a side benefit. Are you driving or taking the train?”

Zach licked the spoon clean and dipped it back into his bowl, coming up with a glistening maraschino cherry. He grinned triumphantly. “Driving probably.”

“Well don’t be late, Mom’s worried about you.”

Zach sat forward at that, hovering over the phone like a vulture. “What did she say?”

“Nothing specific, you know how she is.”

“Tell her I’m fine, then. Because I am. Fine.”

“You’ll tell her yourself.”

Zach sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “And have to show her,” he murmured under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing. I have to go. I have, um, a meeting.”

There was a long pause at the other end, as if Joe was weighing whether to call him out on that. He didn't. “OK, goodbye.”

\----

“Does it hurt?” Zach asked that night. His face was all soft and vulnerable and his eyes shone in what little light came in from the street. Chris knew it was because of the pills, but he didn’t say anything.

“Does what hurt?”

“You know.”

“No, being dead doesn’t hurt.”

He nearly drifted off, then opened his eyes. “I could always tell when you lied.”

Chris smiled and ducked his head; he remembered. “It’s just lonely sometimes.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

Chris didn’t answer and Zach fell asleep seconds later.

\----

“Do _none_ of these fit?” Zach muttered to himself. He pulled on a third pair of skinny jeans and regarded his muffin top with some degree of horror.

“I will not mention all the ice cream, but only because you can’t hear me,” Chris said. He was sitting in the middle of Zach’s bed in the Lotus position.

“God, no more ice cream. And it’s the damn holidays coming up. I might as well start wearing muumuus like Dom DeLuise.”

“Don’t be such a drama queen, just buy some Dockers.”

“Or WORSE— _Dockers!"_

Chris chuckled. 

“You are so not ready for this,” Zach told his reflection.

 “You’ll do fine,” Chris assured him.

 ----

 “See, that wasn’t so bad,” Chris said the night they got back. They lay in Zach’s bed as usual, facing each other. Chris was careful to keep a safe distance between them.

 “It was exhausting. I’m happy my delusions are willing to cheer me up, though.”

 Chris bit his tongue—he’d long given up trying to convince Zach he was real. “You’re home now.”

 “Home with you. It’s better this way.”

 “Yeah. I think it is.”

 ----

 It was getting closer to Christmas. Chris knew this only because of the avalanche of holiday-themed catalogs (who knew I _nternational Male_ was still around), and the build-up of unopened red, green, and gold envelopes on Zach’s kitchen island. The holiday didn't find its way inside the apartment, even though Zach used to go all out.

One morning he woke early and left right after the dogs’ walk, not returning until after noon. Chris followed him to the bathroom, where he was busy refilling Miles’ sleeping pill bottle with new pills from a small plastic bag, these a slightly different shape and size. Chris wasn’t sure where he got them all the time, but here was proof they weren’t exactly a legit prescription. It made sense though—Zach would have to consult with a doctor to get a real prescription, and Chris didn't see that happening.

The phone rang, and for the first time in a long time Zach actually answered it. “Hey, Zo,” he said into the speaker phone as he grabbed the sandwich he’d brought back with him and sat down.

“Hey,” she said in a gentle but leading tone.

“What?”

“You doing OK today?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I?”

There was a long silence. “Because of the date?”

Zach froze for a moment and then unwrapped the sandwich. “Oh, that. I’m fine,” he said lightly, licking mustard off his fingers.

Another long silence. “Are you sure? It’s a year today that Chris died—I know how hard you’ve been taking it.”

“Oh shit,” Chris groaned; he’d completely forgotten. Dates meant nothing to him anymore. He went to sit across from Zach, studying his face. It was passive, almost serene.

“Don’t worry, little mommy, I’ve got a plan.”

“Like what?”

“Long, hot bath, meditation. I’m going to see Jon later, after the play lets out.”

Chris knew that was a lie—Zach hadn’t spoken to Jon Groff in months.

“I’ll be fine,” Zach continued.

“Well... OK,” Zoë said reluctantly, though Chris didn't think she sounded convinced. “But I’m in Queens at my mom’s if you want to get together in the meantime—the twins can do without me for an afternoon.”

“You are too kind,” Zach said around a mouthful of sandwich. “I will definitely call you if I need it.”

After they hung up, Chris hovered as Zach he sat at the kitchen island, staring into the middle distance, not reading or doing anything else as he ate. When he was done, he rose and went to the master suite, where Chris soon heard the shower running. When he returned, wet-headed and changed into a pair of sweats and a baggy t-shirt, he went directly to the couch. He dug Chris’s ratty, old cardigan out of the pile of throw blankets, pulled it on, and settled down to glance at his email. As usual, he filed half of them away for later and deleted the rest, not reading anything.

Zach grew progressively more anxious as the afternoon wore on. Nothing on television could hold his attention, and he even fired up his Xbox, though he gave up after less than ten minutes. He then took to pacing around the apartment like a tiger in a too-small enclosure.

“Come on, buddy, pull out of this,” Chris implored uselessly from the stool he still sat on in the kitchen as Zach passed him, but of course he wasn’t heard. He watched as Zach opened a bottle of white wine and poured himself a large glass, which he carried, along with the bottle, back to the living room.

Zach found his phone to flip through old photos of him and Chris, together and apart, most of them taken during the last Trek press tour. He eventually stopped to stare at a photo Babar had taken the night before Zach listed his house for sale.

“I’ve never heard of a going-away party for a house,” Chris had said that night.

Zach had shrugged and said something off-the-cuff, but Chris could see the emotion in his eyes, what it meant to him to decide to set down roots in New York. When the photo was taken, they were discussing art dealers of all things.

Out of the blue, Zach sighed. “What were you saying that day? What were you trying to tell me?” he murmured.

Chris looked up, not tracking. “What, about that gallery in Philly?”

Zach’s phone rang before he could say anything else that might explain it. “Hello?”

Chris couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation.

“Hey. She did? I owe her a scolding then. No, I told her I’m _fine_.” His voice thickened as he said it and sudden tears were sliding from his eyes. He sniffed and reached for a tissue, putting the phone on speaker so he could blow his nose.

“You are not fine, Zach. This is a sad day for you, and you have to own that,” Joe’s voice said from the speaker.

“Believe me, I’m owning it,” Zach said, pulling multiple tissues from the box and pressing them to his eyes. “I just can't believe how much I miss him, how _hard_ this is.”

“He was your best friend, of course you miss him.”

Zach muttered something even Chris didn’t hear.

“What?” Joe asked.

“I didn't just love him _that way_ , Joe. I was _in love_ with him.”

“Oh. Shit, Zach—“

“Not that it's done me much good to finally realize this,” Zach said, gesturing broadly now that his hands were free. “It's why Miles left, did you know that? He said he couldn’t be with someone who was so clearly in love with a dead man. How did he see it and I didn't? I might have said something, I could have done something about it, before it was too late.”

“You don't know that he felt the same.”

“What if he did?”

“How can you know?”

“There was something he said to me, that last day. Did I tell you we spoke the afternoon it happened?”

“No.”

“He called me—totally out of the blue. We never called each other when we were on-set—too distracting. But he called for some inane reason in the middle of the day, and he said he had something he wanted to talk to me about. Something was weighing on his mind.”

“Something important?”

“You knew Chris, he'd never have admitted something was important to him unless you held him down physically.”

“I do not!” Chris insisted.

“You know what keeps me up at night?” Zach continued. “You know what thought spins around and around in my brain to the point I have to self-medicate in order to make it stop?”

“Self-medicate? Zach—“

“What if I'd fucking said something?” Zach interrupted. “What if he knew I cared about him? Would he have done anything differently?” His mouth quivered as he began to cry again. “If he knew I loved him, that I was here waiting for him, would he have been more careful? Could I have kept him from… from…”

“Zach, no,” Chris said. There were tears in his eyes too.

“You can't blame yourself, Zach, it was an accident!” Joe said.

Zach shook his head, not listening.

“You told me to take care!” Chris pointed out uselessly.

“And now he's gone,” Zach went on, his face contorted with sorrow. “He's gone and I don't know what to do with these _feelings_! It's such a stupid waste!” He hugged his knees to his chest, and rocked himself against the back of the couch. Joe made distressed-sounding noises as he tried to comfort him.

“You know, sometimes I think I see him?” Zach said after he’d calmed down a bit. “That's normal right?”

“I think so. I mean it makes sense that, like, your brain fills in details on a stranger, makes you see what you want to see.”

“Yeah but… sometimes I think I can hear him too.”

“Oh. Um… maybe you should talk to someone about that.”

“I'm talking to you.”

“You know what I mean. Your therapist is better equipped than I am to help you with this stuff. Call him.”

Zach only shook his head.

“Come on, Zach, promise me you'll call him,” Joe said, beginning to sound a little desperate.

“It's after 8:00 here.”

“Fine, call in the morning then. You need help, I hate to think of you suffering alone.”

“It's what I'm _so_ good at,” Zach muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you want me to fly out there? I have nothing scheduled the rest of this week.”

“No! No, it's fine. I’m fine.”

“It's not, Zach. You're hurting and I want to help.”

Zach paused to blow his nose. “You already have. Please don't come, I can handle this. I'll call my doctor and make an appointment first thing in the morning. You're right, I've been dealing with this the wrong way, and I need help coping.”

The words he said sounded right, but he delivered them in such an inflectionless monotone that Chris didn't know if he believed him.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“OK,” Joe said reluctantly. “You want me to call anyone else? I don't think you should be alone right now.”

“Jon called me earlier. We're gonna get together.”

At least he was telling the same lie, Chris thought.

“Really? OK then. I have to go now, I'm meeting my accountant. But if you start feeling down tonight I want you to call me all right? It doesn't matter what time it is, baby brother, I want to hear from you.”

Zach smiled, but there were tears in his eyes again. “All right.”

“Goodbye.”

“Uh-huh.” Zach hung up.

“Zach,” Chris said, dropping to his knees in front of him. “I am so sorry.”

Zach stared right through him.

“I fucked this up so badly.”

Zach rose and grabbed his wine glass, walking to the kitchen. When he returned, he had a glass filled with vodka, as well as the bottle.

“You really think that's the best way to cope?”

Zach picked up the TV remote and found _Star Trek Into Darkness_ on Netflix. He hit fast forward.

“Jesus Christ, this can't be healthy. Like, at all,” Chris said as Zach queued up Kirk's death scene. He was still on the floor, curled up beside the couch near Zach’s feet, and pulled the neck of his t-shirt up over his nose to watch with a pained expression.

“Remember how wrecked you were after this scene?” Zach said, pouring himself another three fingers of vodka. He had stopped mixing it with anything weeks ago.

Chris side-eyed the screen; he hadn't watched this since all the premieres, and even then he'd made some excuse to be out of the theater.

“You didn't want anyone to know, but I could tell,” Zach went on. “I didn't say anything, I knew how you would've clammed up.”

“Yeah, well.” Chris said.

“I always wondered why. Was it because it scared you?”

“No,” Chris answered, perplexed at Zach's sudden mood swing.

“Your impending mortality?” Zach went on, a strange edge in his voice. “ _That undiscover’d country from whose bourn no traveler returns_? Did it frighten you?”

“No.”

“Where was that fear of death a year ago?” Zach spat out, the vodka sloshing over his hand as he waved it at the screen. “Did you give any of us a thought when you loosened that strap? It was there for your safety, did you feel safe, Chris?”

Sitting on the floor suddenly made Chris feel weak, so he stood, unconsciously putting his hands on his hips. “I didn't feel anything. I wasn't thinking of anything but my own comfort. Is that what you'd like to hear?”

Zach made a disgusted sound and paused the playback. The screen was frozen on the image of Kirk's lifeless face, eyes staring sightlessly through the glass.

“I was thinking about Spock, actually, and how sad it would be for him to have to go on alone,” Chris continued. “And how it's not the dead we should mourn, but the survivors. But I don't know that you'd understand that at all, Zach, as content as you've been to wallow in your own self-pity and grief. To think I came here because I was worried about you.”

“You wouldn't have done anything differently, would you?” Zach said to the TV, his voice now a whisper. “Even if you knew I loved you?”

Chris blinked at him, let his arms drop to his side, all anger draining away. “I don't know,” he said quietly, all the fight leaving him. He sat down on the edge of the couch and slumped forward, forearms resting on thighs. “But probably not.”

They sat that way for a long time, the two of them staring into space and breathing heavily after their respective outbursts. It was dark outside—it turned dark early this time of year as the world wound down toward the solstice—and Chris could see his reflection in the window directly across the living room from him. He could see Zach’s reflection, too, perfectly centered in the next window. It reminded him of two characters in a comic strip, the action from one panel separated from the next by thin yet impenetrable lines.

“If only you could see me,” Chris said. “I could explain. I could make you see how sorry I am.”

Zach rose and left the room, stumbling drunkenly back toward the bathroom. Chris did not follow, but could hear muffled noises filtering back to him, a toilet flushing, water running. He rose to look for Zach after a while, finding him in the bedroom lying on his back atop the covers.

“What do I do now?” Chris mused aloud, leaning against the doorway. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “What am I gonna DO?!”

“You can quit shouting, for one,” Zach replied. He rose up on his elbows and gave Chris the side-eye. “You’re harshing my misery, man.”

Chris blinked at him, irritation taking the place of contrition. “Don’t mind me, I’m only having an existential crisis over here.”

“I can imagine. Happy Death Day, by the way.”

Chris flinched.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Chris said, approaching the bed and sitting down on the opposite side, facing Zach. “I’m sorry you’re suffering because of me.”

“Who says—“

“I kind of saw everything just now.”

“Oh. Right—you’re in my head, so naturally.”

“I really am not a delusion, I swear.”

“How are you gonna prove it?”

“No idea.” He sighed. “Wait a minute how are you even talking to me? You've never been able to see me when you were drunk before.”

“Only with the pills,” Zach pointed out.

“Yeah, because you were falling asleep. I could talk to you before that, but only for a second or so at a time.”

“Is that really why? Huh.” Zach snuggled into his pillow exaggeratedly, hands folded beneath his chin.

“Zach, come on… Hey, wait a second, did you take any sleeping pills just now?”

Zach looked up with a coy expression on his face. “Maaaaaybe.”

Chris's hands curled with the urge not to throttle him. “After all you drank? How many did you take?”

“I dunno, six? Seven? They're small.” He thought a moment, his eyes lowering sleepily. “I'm just like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't care,” he said in a singsong voice.

Chris had never felt so cold before in his life. “Zach, of course you _care_. What about your mother and brother? Your friends? Why would you do this to them? Why would you leave them like this?”

“You did.”

“I didn't exactly have a choice. What happened was an accident, a stupid accident. I wasn't thinking of the consequences—if I had, I would be alive right now. I'd be... I'd be with you, here.”

“You would?”

“Of course I would, I love you. That's what I was trying to tell you that day, only I couldn't do it over the phone. I thought it needed to be said in person. That's why I wanted to be sure to get together at Sundance.”

“You always _were_ a little chicken shit.”

“Basically.”

“You really loved me?” Zach asked breathlessly.

Chris lay down on the bed so they were facing each other, most of the expanse of the mattress between them. “I always loved you. I still do. We're soul mates, did you know that?”

“We are?”

“That's why I came back, because I—I couldn't _not_. I had to see you, I had to—“

“Make sure I was ok?”

“Have the chance to be with you that I never got before.”

“Well, that's kind of selfish.”

“I'm seeing that now, yeah.”

“I'm glad you came.”

“I thought you thought I was a delusion?”

“I still do. Don't look so insulted, empirical proof of an afterlife isn't something anyone expects.”

“It shocked the hell outta me,” Chris agreed.

“See?”

Chris settled into his pillow. Zach reached for him and when Chris pulled away, he looked distraught.

“I'm sorry,” Chris said, “but whenever I touch anyone there are—consequences.”

“It kills people?” Zach looked appalled.

“Not _that_ bad. Let's put it this way, you know when you trip over nothing on the sidewalk?” Zach nodded. “That's probably one of us dead guys.”

“How many of you are there?”

“On this side? Not as many as you think. Doing this—coming here--it's not really allowed.”

“You broke the rules to be with me? _You_?”

“I had unresolved issues. Isn't that what they always say about ghosts?”

“I'm your unresolved issue.” Zach looked very pleased as his eyes slid shut.

“Zach?” Chris said, but he got no response. Was this going to be it, then? Was this where Zach’s road ended? Was this how they’d be reunited?

“No!”

As much as Chris wanted to be with Zach, as much as he missed him, he didn't want to have him like this. He couldn’t buy his own happiness at the expense of the rest of Zach’s life. When he thought of all the wasted chances, the things he’d left undone and unsaid, Chris felt a pang inside so strong it physically hurt. He’d never see Luca graduate high school, never have kids of his own, never get to grow old with the man he loved.

He couldn’t let that happen to Zach.

“This is not happening,” Chris said as he pushed himself up in the bed, determined to act. His own death had been a stupid accident, and he was gone almost before anyone knew something had gone wrong. But Zach was not alone, he had Chris here with him, and Chris could help. But how? How was he going to do it?

He glanced at Zach, who for all intents and purposes seemed to be sleeping peacefully. At least he was still breathing. He bent over him, hands fluttering uselessly. It was now or never.

“Fuck it,” he said at last. He licked his lips and, leaning in, pressed his mouth to Zach's.

The reaction was immediate as Zach's entire body stiffened and rose off the bed. It reminded Chris of patients on medical shows when the doctors used a defibrillator. Chris backed up immediately, though he stayed close.

Zach's eyes fluttered open and he looked up at Chris, surprised. “What the hell was that?”

“I kissed you.”

“It's not how I remember it being.”

“I told you what would happen if I touched you. I didn't have a choice, you fell asleep!”

Zach looked unimpressed.

“Hey, this is my first time at this. I don't want you to die.”

“I don't want to die either. Chris!” He looked terrified for a moment. Then he was rolling over and vomiting all over the bedspread. “I don’t feel so hot,” he moaned and pushed himself onto his back weakly.

“We have to call someone. 911.”

“No! No, it'll be all over the papers.”

“Are we seriously having this conversation?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Zach was crying again.

“Where’s your phone?”

Zach gestured toward the living room. “In there.”

Chris looked at him expectantly for a beat before realizing he was in no shape to get up and walk. He rushed out into the apartment, where he spotted the phone lying on the edge of the coffee table. Sighing, he shook his right hand as he got ready to make it corporeal. He held his breath as he concentrated, the familiar pins and needles sensation growing in intensity in his fingers as he blew out a steady breath.

Noah barked at the disembodied hand carrying a phone and Skunk, roused by the commotion, followed Chris to the bedroom, jumping up occasionally to try to catch it. “Cut it out!” Chris admonished, but of course the dog couldn’t hear him.

“Here's the phone,” Chris said as he dropped it on the bed. “Zach?” He had passed out again. “Great,” Chris sighed, walking around to the other side of the bed.

“I don't think Prince Charming had to deal with vomit on Snow White's lips,” he pointed out as he bent to kiss Zach on the forehead. Once more, Zach's body convulsed, and he stirred, but he did not open his eyes.

“Zach?”

Chris kissed him again, and got no response.

Finally, he laid both hands on Zach's chest, causing an even more violent reaction, but Zach did not wake.

“Shit!” Chris said, getting as close to Zach as he could. He was breathing, thankfully, but had it gotten shallower? Chris couldn't tell.

“Goddamn it!” Chris needed to call for help and he needed to do it soon.

“I am going to have to fully manifest,” he said, revulsion making his stomach flip.

The first time he’d done this, it had felt like his body was trying to turn itself inside out—the pain had been shocking, unlike anything he’d felt since his death. How Elvis endured it all the time was beyond him. Since then, Chris had only manifested whatever body parts he needed to get a given job done, usually his hands as he cleared Zach’s apartment up, or if he had to use the elevator. But to be successful now, he’d need his whole body. He took a moment to do some deep breathing exercises he’d learned in yoga and tried to center himself before beginning.

He concentrated on allowing first the tips of his fingers to pass through; since he did that so often, it wasn’t hard. Next he allowed his forearms through, past his elbow to his upper arms, then his shoulders. It felt like the worst pins and needles he’d ever endured, and then some, but time was getting short and he’d have to speed this up. The pain when his torso passed through nearly took his breath away, which was fine since he used that to quickly manifest his head, followed by his hips, legs, and feet.

Skunk barked with surprise when he saw him suddenly appear, and Noah looked nonplussed, though he did nuzzle at Chris's hand to get him to pet him. “Not now, guys!” Chris scolded, and they skulked out of the room.

Chris kneeled on Zach’s bed and lightly smacked his face, trying to rouse him, unsuccessfullly. He turned Zach onto his side in case he vomited again, then grabbed for the phone.

“911, what's your emergency?”

“Please, my friend took a bunch of sleeping pills, and he was drinking. Can you send someone?” He gave the address.

“What did he take? How much?”

“I don't know, ma'am. Please hurry.”

“Is he breathing?”

“Yes.”

“OK, that’s good, sir. Now, do you know what he took, or how many?”

“No.”

“OK, it’s probably a good idea to find the pill bottle for the EMTs when they get there, OK?”

“Yes, good idea.” He rushed to the bathroom, rooting under the sink for the wire mesh basket where Zach kept the pill bottle. As he rested it on the edge of the sink, he glanced up into the mirror and gasped at what he saw.

It was him, but he didn’t seem like him at all. He looked thin—almost gaunt—and the usual brightness of his skin had gone dull, nearly grey. No wonder Zach thought he was a figment of his imagination—he looked like a monster. “Or like a ghost,” he said, horrified.

Startled, he dropped the phone, hanging up on the 911 operator. What had he done? His concern for Zach, his insistence on staying here was already costing him. He leaned in over the sink to get a closer look. Did his face look as wasted as the other ghosts he’d seen? Was he going to go insane like them too?

“Pull yourself together, Pine, this isn’t about you.”

He quickly found the pill bottle and returned to the bedroom. As he did, he realized he would need to stay corporeal long enough to let the police into the apartment. His skin felt like it might peel off his body, and a cold, clammy sweat plastered his t-shirt to his back. He paced for a few minutes, hoping to take his mind off it, but it did no good. Finally, he sat down on the bed beside Zach, to watch over him until help arrived.

This would be the last time in hopefully many years that Chris would be able to see Zach, he knew that now, and he wanted to remember it all. Even after the night he’d had, Zach was the most beautiful thing Chris had ever seen. Reaching out, he ran trembling fingers through Zach's soft hair.

“I know you can't hear me, but I have to tell you this again. I love you. I've pretty much always loved you since the day we met, and as it turns out, the universe says I always will. I'm not sure how much comfort that will bring you or me, but it's all I've got to offer. I won't come back here again—I don't think it's been good for either of us. Damn Elvis for being right anyhow.”

Chris leaned in close, to whisper in Zach's ear. “Just promise me one thing, ok? Live the hell out of your life? Use the time you've got left well. Life is a precious thing, and I took that for granted. Don't be like me. Don't let fear keep you from the most important things. _Live_ , OK?” He pressed his lips to Zach’s sweaty temple. “Live.”

Moments later, the front doorbell sounded, and he ran out to see that not only had the police arrived, so had a pair of EMTs bearing equipment and a stretcher. He buzzed them in, then went to lock the dogs up in the office so they’d stay out of the way.

“He’s in here,” Chris said as the elevator door opened, leading them back to the master bedroom. When asked, he handed over the pill bottle it to the EMTs. As they worked, he backed out of the way, allowing his body to phase out of this plane existence, sighing with relief as the discomfort ended.

“His vitals are strong,” one of the EMTs. He turned in Chris’s direction. “I don’t think he took a fatal dose, sir. Sir? Where’d he go?”

When he left via the back stairs, Chris could hear the cop searching the apartment for him.

\----

“What happened?” Elvis asked almost as soon as he answered the door. When Chris nearly collapsed onto the floor in the foyer, he helped him inside. “Never mind, I think I can guess. You need to talk about it?”

Chris nodded mutely and let Elvis fuss over him, conjuring a mug of tea and making Chris sit with his feet propped up on the coffee table, a granny square quilt thrown around his shoulders. It was nice, if weird, that the King of Rock and Roll was so well-prepared for nursing a broken heart. “You look like hell—what happened?” Elvis repeated.

“He tried to kill himself.”

Elvis's shock was apparent.

“It was an accident!” Chris was quick to explain. “He was really drunk, and crying, and… man, it’s so stupid, I should have seen it coming.” He then told Elvis the entire story, everything about the last few months he’d spent on the other side with Zach, the connection they had.

“It was so comforting at first,” he said at the end. “I mean, I derived comfort just by being with him. And by trying to communicate with him, see him each day… it became the one thing I lived for while I was there.”

“You were obsessed.”

“Now that you say it, I realize that’s exactly what it was. And it wasn’t good, it wasn’t healthy. For either of us. And when he started taking the pills, I just saw nothing but advantage—we could have short conversations when he did, and I could just _be with him_. It was enough for me, it would be enough, for the rest of eternity. I didn’t even think about the consequences, what it was doing to both of us, I didn’t care. Not until today.” He scrubbed at his face with both hands. “He’s supposed to be the love of my life—look what my love did to him!”

“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. Grief makes us do crazy things, and he was obviously hit hard by losing you. He probably would have gone through the same thing without you there.”

“I don’t know about that,” Chris replied, but it was something to think about. “I sure learned my lesson, though. And you were right—it was a mistake.”

“But you got to be with him in ways you hadn't before, so that was something.”

“Stop trying to make me feel better, Elvis, I fucked up badly.” He sniffed, the tears in his eyes finally falling. “I fucked up badly, and look at me—I nearly couldn’t cross over on my way back, I’m such a mess. I was so blind, I let my emotions blind me.”

“Look, I don’t want to say ‘I told you so’ but…”

Chris could allow Elvis the point. He’d been pretty adamant about how much he hated the afterlife, and the pain he’d felt being parted from Zach. It was the unfairness of it all that had gotten to him—how could he have realized he was in love and have that opportunity snatched from him mere hours later? The injustice of it had clouded his judgment, had impaired his ability to see the truth. He sniffed. “Maybe it’s not in the stars for me to see Zach, but I mean, what if that’s OK? What if I just grow a set and accept the fact of it? I’m a fucking adult, right?”

“In theory.”

“And if I just bide my time, I’ll see Zach again, and we’ll have what, centuries together? And I can’t wait a measly thirty or forty? I mean, we’ll get to spend so much time with all the people we love, all the people who ever meant anything to us. That’s pretty great.”

Elvis nodded.

The more Chris spoke, the more he realized he meant what he was saying. He was beginning to feel warm, so he threw the quilt off his shoulders. “And we can live anywhere—and anywhen? And there’s the library to explore, I can’t believe I forgot about that. I can read the _Magna Carta_ if I wanted to.”

“It’s pretty boring.”

“I know, but it’s there! And all the books lost in Alexandria, all _that_ learning? I’m a lit geek, Elvis, that’s huge.” Chris stood up, renewed excitement helping him forget the pain he was in a moment before. “I might teach myself ancient Greek so I can read them! Maybe I could meet Socrates, too.”

“I wouldn’t try—he’s kinda snooty.”

“But he’s here! And I could meet my great grandmother—she was a suffragette, did you know that? I never got to meet her. Oh, this isn’t half as bad as I thought it was going to be when I got here. It’s like an adventure, really. Don’t you think it’s an adventure?”

“Calm down, you don’t want to hurt yourself.”

“But Elvis, think of all the possibilities. Is it hot in here?” Chris realized he was burning up, but Elvis looked perfectly normal.

“It’s all you, baby.”

 _“Teodora!”_ a woman’s voice yelled from somewhere deep inside the house.

“Just a minute, Yia-yia!” Chris called, then turned back to Elvis. “Do you want to come with me? I mean, have you ever been to the Andes?”

“Where are the Andes?”

“I dunno, South America?”

 _“James, I didn’t think I’d see you again,”_ a woman’s voice purred into Chris’s ear, making the small hairs on his neck stand on end. He flushed—that voice was so suggestive, so full of familiar promise, he nearly felt his dick twitch. “Mary,” he whispered, turning to take her in his arms as he’d longed to since the war with France began—but she wasn’t there.

“What’s going on?” he said, alarmed, whirling around. “Are there other people here?” he asked Elvis. “I’m hearing voices.”

“It’s all you, baby,” Elvis said, a bemused expression on his face. “This is your Enlightenment coming on ya.”

“No! Really? It feels so strange.”

“It’s about to get stranger.”

“No, but, I’m not ready, I—Oh!“

Chris clutched at his head as the voices he was hearing suddenly began to clamor at him.

_“Out of my way, peasant!”_

_“I love you, Charles, but I must marry whomever my parents say.”_

_“It’s a boy!”_

_“There’s plague in the city, we must leave immediately.”_

Scores of voices, hundreds, thousands, in every language Chris could imagine. All of them building on one another, growing in number, filling his head, making it throb until he felt like it might burst. He fell to his knees under the weight of it all, peering up at Elvis, reaching for him. “What’s going on, is it dark in here?” Chris shouted over the cacophony in his head.

“That’s you, too,” Elvis said, eyes practically bugging out of his head as he stared at Chris. When Chris looked down at himself, he saw there was a bright white light emanating from within him, as if the muscles under his skin were liquid fire. His skin was a dark contrast, and seemed to struggle to contain it—bits of it burst forth from his fingertips, his nipples, his eyes, like arrows.

He screamed, in pain, in surprise, “What’s happening?!” But he knew with a kind of clarity he rarely got: Elvis was right, this was his transition. He was changing—or more accurately, _reverting_ —into his true self, the self that encompassed all his past lives and experiences, and the change was remaking his body.

He screamed again, this time with excitement as he accepted it, as he felt the combined pain and knowledge and joy of several millennia of existence integrating within himself. He felt powerful, he felt humbled. It was everything all at once, and he wanted to let it consume him entirely.

When it was over, he was still kneeling on the shearling rug in Elvis's conversation pit, still contained in the body he’d had earlier, but he was so many more things now. He had everything now, every personality, every memory, every language. And he was still Chris Pine.

What’s more, he had Zach too.

Because no matter where, when, or what he was—an orphaned young girl in ancient Athens being brought up by her grandmother, a Spanish nobleman returning from war to his wife, a Venetian merchant’s wife—there was always his soul mate, there was always Zach. They were inseparable, they were a constant in all things. And he remembered it all.

How naïve he’d been until this point; he’d felt so cheated, like the universe owed him because he’d died without getting to enjoy a life with Zach. But they’d already had millennia, and they had the whole of time ahead of them as well. The joy that brought him was unspeakable. He wanted to weep with the knowing of it.

He looked up at Elvis, who regarded him calmly from his seat on the couch, and laughed instead.

“Well, that was pretty wild,” Elvis said.

“You don’t know the half of it!” he said, laughing. He threw his arms up in the air. “Woo hoo!”


	10. Chapter 10

**TRANSCRIPT: Barbara Walters Interview: Zachary Quinto  
AIR DATE: February 23, 2018**

_The following is the transcript of the interview ABC's Barbara Walters conducted with Zachary Quinto. The interview was held the day the actor-director-producer learned of his dual nomination for Best Adapted Screenplay and Best Film at the 90th Academy Awards for his directorial debut_ The Cupboy.

 **VOICEOVER** : This is the year Zachary Quinto, already a tremendous success as the actor who brought _Star Trek_ ’s Mr. Spock to life a second time, took his deep love for film to a whole new level. Already an acclaimed producer of such diverse films as _Banshee Chapter, Margin Call,_ and _All is Lost_ starring screen legend Robert Redford, he has poured his passion for and dedication to filmmaking into _The Cupboy_ , a dramatic coming-of-age story of a young man’s struggles with his sexuality in the 1980s. The film has garnered eight Oscar nominations, including Best Adapted Screenplay for Quinto himself, and Best Film. We sat down with him in his Los Angeles home the afternoon he learned of his film’s nominations.

 **ABC’s Barbara Walters** : Zachary Quinto, you have had a big day.

 **Zachary Quinto** : Right? I can hardly believe it! I think my mother is still hyperventilating.

 **Walters** : Congratulations. In all my years doing this, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of seeing someone so soon after hearing the news. May I say it is an absolute pleasure?

 **Quinto** : You may.

 **Walters** : Tell me what this film means to you.

 **Quinto** : it’s possibly the most personal work I’ve ever put out there. When I first read the book, it just spoke to me, it spoke to my own struggles when I was a young person, struggles with identity and religion and family. I honestly have to say there is as much of me in this film as there is of the book’s author, Max Ravix. 

**Walters** : It’s also a little racy, isn’t it?

 **Quinto** : (laughs) Well, if I’ve got Barbara Walters calling a story that features a male prostitute only a little racy, I’m not sure if it’s gone far enough! But seriously, I found the material completely approachable, even given its subject matter, because the character’s journey was so similar to my own. Plus, it was damn funny.

 **Walters** : I’ll give you that—I don’t think I’ve laughed as much in five years.

 **Quinto** : I find that immensely gratifying to hear.

 **Walters** : But it made me cry, too.

 **Quinto** : Also immensely gratifying.

 **Walters** : Your focus on the making of this film is well-known.

 **Quinto** : Publicly-known, yeah.

 **Walters** : Why?

 **Quinto** : I mean, everyone knows, I backed out of the third Trek film to focus on making it, and there was a big to-do. 

**Walters** : That’s putting it mildly.

 **Quinto** : You mean all the tabloid stories and such? Well, yeah, I think the studio played pretty dirty pool, but I mean, it’s all good now.

 **Walters** : Really?

 **Quinto** : Yeah.

 **Walters** : In 2015, you took a break from show business.

 **Quinto** : I did.

 **Walters** : Was it the usual ‘exhaustion’ we hear befalls entertainers from time to time?

 **Quinto** : I think this was the question I dreaded most in this interview.

 **Walters** : What? No, come on.

 **Quinto** : But I SWORE I would answer truthfully. No, seriously, ‘exhaustion,’ what is that code for? Drugs? Rehab? I’ll tell you now those things played a role, but the truth of it is I lost two of the most important people in my life in the space of three months, and the grief nearly killed me.

 **Walters** : You’re speaking of Leonard Nimoy of course, your mentor as Mr. Spock.

 **Quinto** : (nods) He was a lot more than that, but yeah.

 **Walters** : And who else? Chris?

 **Quinto** : Pine, yeah. Chris Pine. 

**Walters** : The most important?

 **Quinto** : I told myself I wouldn’t cry. Yes, Chris was the most important relationship in my life, though he probably never knew it. 

**Walters** : How important?

 **Quinto** : We came up together, you know, in our early days, we ran in the same circles. We became friends pretty quickly, just immediately felt an affinity and rapport. We’d help each other out with auditions and things—not that we were up for the same roles, mind you, I mean, look at that guy and look at me—he was a literal Disney Prince! We had a lot in common, and a lot not in common, and it just worked. 

**Walters** : They say you got him the role of Captain Kirk.

 **Quinto** : I got him the _audition_. He got that role all on his own. He was such an immense talent, he had so much more to give the world. I miss him every day.

 **Walters** : You loved him? 

**Quinto** : Of course.

 **Walters** : You were lovers.

 **Quinto** : (pauses) I don't know how to answer that, really. Chris was such a private man about his personal life. But if your question is, 'Did we have a romantic relationship,' then the answer would have to be no.

 **Walters** : But he loved you, you know that?

 **Quinto** : I have gone on record as saying that, yes. 

**Walters** : Come on, what kind of answer is that?

 **Quinto** : (pauses) I am sure of very few things in my life, but that is one of them.

 **Walters** : How can you be sure?

 **Quinto** : I felt it—I feel it. Every day.

 **Walters** : You've made the news, lately, Zachary, because of those feelings, because of your belief in the spirit world?

 **Quinto** : Yes.

 **Walters** : Care to elaborate?

 **Quinto** : (scratches head)

 **Walters** : Maybe this should have been the question you most dreaded?

 **Quinto** : (laughs) Probably! But no, I’m just thinking my answer through. It’s a complex topic, and one very special to me. You know, I don’t want to be one of those people that you look at askance because of some notion they’re not all there, because their beliefs don’t jibe with the mainstream. But I’ve had experiences, deeply felt, personal experiences that have led me to believe certain things to be true. 

**Walters** : Will you tell me?

 **Quinto** : After Chris died, I didn’t really… I didn’t really process it well. I went through this cycle of grief that… that could have destroyed me. That very nearly did. 

**Walters** : How so?

 **Quinto** : I became this whole other person, this closed-down, depressive person, and I shut out everyone in my life—friends, family, lovers. It was… it was a bad trip. I became… dependent I suppose you could say, on sleeping pills and alcohol.

 **Walters** : Not a smart combination.

 **Quinto** : No. Of course, I didn’t take them at the same time. Until I did. A lot.

 **Walters** : Are you saying you tried to commit suicide?

 **Quinto** : I’m saying I got stunningly drunk one night, to the point it didn’t seem like that bad an idea at the time. That’s when it happened.

 **Walters** : What?

 **Quinto** : Have you ever felt loved? I mean, to the very core of your being, as if all your cells could feel it?

 **Walters** : Sure.

 **Quinto** : I felt that, that night, from the spirits all around me. From Chris himself.

 **Walters** : You saw him?

 **Quinto** : (clears throat) It was probably the drugs, right?

 **Walters** : Was it? 

**Quinto** : It’s a great feeling to know that kind of love. You know, life is a precious thing, and I felt like I was taking it for granted. I was letting fear and grief keep me from the most important things. I decided I needed to live the hell out of my life.

 **Walters** : And have you? Are you?

 **Quinto** : Every single day.

\----

**PITTSBURGH POST-GAZETTE  
Entertainment**

**Actor-Director Zachary Quinto Dies at 91: He Lived Long and Prospered**

Zachary Quinto, the Oscar and Tony Award-winning actor and director who shot to fame as Mr. Spock in the Star Trek reboot films has died at the age of 91. A Pittsburgh native, Quinto, who later made a much larger impact in film as a three-time Oscar winner, and in theater as a Tony award-winning actor, passed away after a brief illness, his family confirmed. 

\----

“No, come on, do _Hound Dog_ ,” Chris begged.

“Man, fuck you, I ain’t doin’ that old crap,” Elvis said with a scowl.

“Come on, Daddy, please?” Lisa-Marie said, batting big brown eyes. 

Elvis smiled besottedly and immediately picked up his guitar. 

Chris mentally patted himself on the back for thinking to get her on his side from the beginning. They were having a “picnic” in Griffith Park, members of Chris’s and Elvis’s combined cohorts. It was a fairly large group these days, Chris observed, and it felt unbelievably good whenever they all got together. 

Life since his own Enlightenment had been far easier than it had been when he first arrived, but he would not have traded having had that experience at all. He felt it made him a stronger person, and he had integrated the experience well into his Self. 

_Self_ , that’s how he thought of himself these days. How better to think about a being that comprised the combined life experiences of half a dozen people through the ages? He had been so many people, had gone and done so many things, that just identifying as _Chris_ didn’t seem to cut it. That said, Chris was his last persona, and it was the one he wore almost 100% of the time. Many people in Elysium did, because it was familiar and convenient. To Chris, it was the most sentimental and, he felt in a way, earned.

Chris’s struggles after he died had not gone unnoticed. Ike, as it turned out, had been an Omniscient, slumming it on the corporeal and celestial planes because he had a few millennia to spare. When he had seen firsthand the difficulties Chris had had—and when they were compared against other souls’ experiences that had been similar—the re-orientation process had been overhauled, and the Deceased Education and Acclimatization Division (D.E.A.D.) had been replaced by the Counseling Agency for the Recently Expired, or C.A.R.E. Chris’s mom had become one of its first new employees. It had taken a while to implement, but twenty years after its implementation, there was already a reduction in the number of people being lost as ghosts, and efforts to rehabilitate the ghosts that did exist were said to begin soon.

It had been a cause for celebration, though that was not the focus today. Today’s picnic was to celebrate Chris’s deathday.

Strange that such a day should be cause for celebration, but when seen from a different angle, the date one re-entered the celestial plane to return to their true Self was just as significant as the date they were born once more on the corporeal plane.

Or so went the theory. Chris was just happy to have a reason to get everyone together in the park on a sunny day. Being amongst members of one’s cohort was a highly enjoyable experience for a soul. The communion one felt was unlike anything Chris had ever experienced as a living man, though he’d liken it to sex, maybe, or the contentment he used to feel after a good meal. It was a feeling of completion like he’d never had before. It was centering in ways he never imagined, and it was good and right. He felt it with just one member of his family, and it was multiplied a hundredfold when he was with several dozen.

Today was special in that he had invited Elvis and some of his cohort to join them as well. Elvis, happily, had finally embraced his own Enlightenment, not long after his daughter had accepted hers. He no longer had a reason to hold onto the bitterness and self-loathing that had kept him from it before. He was still the same irascible guy he’d always been—and he still crossed over from time to time to get a set in at Caesar’s Palace—but he was finally happy. And a star struck Katie still couldn’t believe Chris was friends with him.

They had all the trappings of a picnic on hand to celebrate the day—folding tables and chairs, colorful table linens, games—everything but the food and drink. After Enlightenment, all cravings real and psychological for such things pretty much stopped, although Chris and Elvis still snuck a smoke in behind the library from time to time, a fact Lisa-Marie never ceased to find amusing. But getting together—and using something as basic as a birthday as a reason to do so—was something that would never stop being enjoyable.

Elvis was just starting his song when Chris felt a twinge in his guts. The all-too-familiar feeling whenever someone close to him passed over was something he’d grown a lot more used to over the years, almost to the point where it barely caused distress. But this one was different, stronger than anything he’d ever felt before, stronger than the day his father died so many years ago. It grew in intensity, too, not diminishing like they tended to do. When it had gotten almost unbearable, he became aware of a hand on his shoulder and realized he had fallen to the ground.

“Chris?”

It was Margo Quinto, her husband John standing behind her, and she had a distressed look on her face. 

“Could it be?” Chris murmured.

“I think so,” she replied.

Chris shook his head, hardly believing. “Zach.”  
Already  
She nodded and helped Chris to his feet. He turned around to see all his family surrounding him. “It’s Zach,” Chris said, though from the looks on their faces, they all knew.

“Go to him, son,” Gwynne Pine said, a smile on her face. “Yours will be the first face he sees.”

Chris managed a smile despite the discomfort he felt; this was one of the major changes that had been implemented by C.A.R.E.: if possible, a person’s soul mate would be on hand along with their counselor.

Chris left, feeling the support of all his family sending him along. 

He let the odd tugging feeling compel him along, though he didn’t have far to go to arrive at the place Zach’s soul had chosen. Chris nearly laughed out loud when he found himself standing in his own garden, the one he’d spent the last fifty-plus years tending and bringing along. He’d recently managed to coax some heirloom tomatoes out of the rocky soil, which had been quite satisfying. The tomatoes, however, were now gone. Sitting on top of where he’d planted them—or rather, back where it belonged—was his old house.

He smiled as soon as he saw it, touched that this of all places was where Zach had felt the most welcome, the most happy and secure. 

A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention; a man stood near the edge of the garden, at the edge of the patio. 

“Good afternoon, Virgil,” Chris said, nodding. Chris had seen him off and on over the years—he had been assigned to many of Chris’s family—and he’d been very open and welcoming to the changes made to the treatment of new arrivals. 

“Christopher,” Virgil said with a large smile. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. This is a meaningful day for you, one you’ve waited a long time to see.”

“I know, but he has still died, right? It’s not a day for celebration.”

“He’s a good man who lived a happy and meaningful life. You know that better than anyone.”

Chris chuckled. “I suppose I do.” While he had kept his promise never to see Zach again, it didn’t mean Chris never returned to the corporeal plane to check up on him every now and then over the years. He’d seen all of Zach’s movies and read all his interviews, and knew exactly how his life had gone.

“Shall we go inside then?” Virgil asked.

“Do you mind if I just go? This is bound to get… emotional.”

Virgil inclined his head, agreeing. “As you wish. I am sure there are many things you will want to catch up on. Tell him I will return in the morning.”

“Thanks, Virgil.”

Virgil made as if to go, then turned back. “You should give him this, though, in case he wants it.” He handed Chris a small, electronic device.

“An iPad?”

“His records.”

“Ah. Leave it to Zach to have all of his on a handheld.”

“Good luck.”

He was gone in less than a second, translocating back to wherever he’d come from.

Chris looked up at the house, fingers toying with the smooth corner of the iPad he held. “Well, it’s now or never I guess,” he muttered and walked up to the patio door. 

The old place was exactly as he’d remembered, including the way the patio door stuck when he tried to open it. He crossed the threshold into the relative darkness of the kitchen, briefly taking in the rustic furnishings. A few things seemed changed to him—had the kitchen been remodeled? But Chris didn’t have time to ponder on that, he was here for a reason.

He found Zach in the study, pulling down book after book from the shelves and looking at them incredulously. “I haven’t seen this one in years! Or this one—wow!”

“Is that _my_ copy of _Infinite Jest_?” Chris said.

Zach jumped when he spoke, and turned around. He was trembling, but his voice was steady as he said, “Well, you weren’t using it.”

Chris took a step forward. “I suppose not. The kitchen looks different.”

Zach stepped toward Chris as well. “I had it remodeled. I bought the place from Katie after a while—she said it was nice to keep it in the family.” 

That fact made Chris incredibly happy—how had he never known? They stood and stared at each other, each grinning like an idiot and they continued to take small steps toward each other. Zach looked exactly the way Chris remembered him most fondly, exactly the way he did that night in Berlin.

“That was you that time, in my apartment, who saved me. Wasn’t it?” Zach asked; he was now just five feet away.

“Yeah,” Chris said, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. Zach reached for them, and Chris stepped forward so he could take them.

“I did what you told me to do—I lived my life,” Zach said

“I heard.”

Zach looked guilty for a moment. “I didn’t do it alone, though, I mean, I’m no monk.”

Chris laughed. “I wouldn’t have expected you to.”

“Have you always looked this good.”

“No.”

Chris wished he could burn this afternoon into his memory forever.

“Hey Chris, now that we’ve got the snark out of the way, can I ask you something?”

“Anything you want.”

Zach looked down at their joined hands. When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes. “I have missed you for half my life, and loved you even longer. Do you think it would be too much if I asked you to kiss me now?”

Chris wanted to laugh—how had they lasted this long? “That’s all you want?”

“Only for starters. Don’t you think it’s about time?”

\----

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for your time.


End file.
